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THE  FINAL  STAR 


The  Final  Star 
POEMS 

By 
MARION  COUTHOUY  SMITH 


NEW  YORK 

JAMES  T.  WHITE  &  CO. 
1918 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Many  of  these  poems  are  re-printed  from  The 
Century,  Harper's  Magazine,  The  Outlook,  The  Na 
tion,  the  New  York  Times,  the  New  York  Tribune, 
The  Youth's  Companioin,  The  Stratford  Journal, 
and  Contemporary  Verse,  by  the  courteous  per 
mission  of  their  editors.  Others  are  selected  from 
previous  volumes. 


COPYRIGHT    MARION    COUTHOUY    SMITH 
1978 


ASCRIPTION 

TO   THEODORE    ROOSEVELT 

TO   HIM   WHOSE   COURSE    NO  TYRANT   FEAR  CONTROLS; 
LEADER,    INSPIRER,   FRIEND    OF    NOBLE    SOULS. 


CONTENTS 

THE   FINAL   STAR n 

THE   INTERPRETER    12 

THE  RUSSIAN  COMPOSERS 12 

THE    CITY  AND   THE   SEA 13 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  MAN 14 

THE   CHARM   INVINCIBLE 15 

THE  LIGHT-BEARER   16 

SONG  OF  THE  FLIERS 17 

MOTHERHOOD    18 

YOUTH  SPEAKS  TO  AGE 19 

AGE   CALLS  TO   YOUTH 20 

LARGESSE  OF  THE   MOON 20 

THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  PASSING 21 

A  TOAST 23 

THE   EYES  OF   LOVE 24 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  WOMAN 25 

THE   LETTER 26 

THE  DREAMS  DENIED 27 

A   MOTHER    28 

PEACE    29 


THE  RESURRECTION    30 

VERDUN 31 

THE    CATHEDRAL 3Z 

AMERICA  TO  BELGIUM 32 

THE  VICTORY 33 

ENSLAVED 35 

THE   ANSWER 36 

THE  FLAG  is  UP 37 

EDITH  CAVELL 39 

A  THANKSGIVING 40 

GERMANY 42 

IN    NO-MAN'S   LAND 43 

THE   AIRMAN 44 

A  REPLY  TO  ENGLAND 45 

BELGIUM    47 

SALUTATION     48 

THE  JESTERS 49 

SAINTE  JEANNE  OF  FRANCE 50 

OLD  TREASURES    51 

BY  ORDER  OF  THE  PEOPLE 52 

THE  SONG 53 

To  THE   MOTHERS 56 

THE    POETS 57 

A  ROOM 58 

A    DEATH 58 

THE    FIRST   LOVE 59 

THE    WIRES 60 

THE  CORAL  BUILDERS 61 

INTERPRETED    63 


THE  CALL  SUPREME 62 

IN   A   HOSPITAL   WARD 63 

LOVE'S    REFUGE 63 

THE  HUNTING-CALL  OF  SPRING 64 

NIGHT   SONG    65 

A   PORTRAIT    67 

ON    EXHIBITION 67 

NEW  YORK   68 

THE  WATERFALL    70 

A  SONG  OF  KINDRED 71 

WITHOUT  INTENT  72 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  GUNNER 73 

IF  WORDS  COULD  REACH  THEE 75 

ON  THE  PLAINS 76 

"To  WHOM   SHALL  WE  Go?" 76 

THE  LION  CAGED 77 

THE  HERMES  OF  PRAXITELES    79 

Nor  IN  THE  HAND  I  LOVE 79 

THE  KITTEN 80 

A   PRAYER 81 

RHYMES  OF  AN  OLD  HOME 82 

NOCTURNE    84 

THE  AWAKENING 8, 

THE  CONQUERING  THRUST 87 

IN    OLD   HAUNTS 87 

OUT  AT  SEA 88 

ON  THE  RIVER:   AN  IMPRESSION 89 

THE   NIGHT   FLOWER 90 


A  GUARDIAN  SPIRIT 91 

SONG  OF  THE  SOULS  THAT  FAILED 91 

THE  BRIGHT  EYES  OF  DANGER 93 

To  ONE  YOUNG  AND  FAIR 9f 

THE    FIRE    ENGINES 95 

THE  FIRE-FLY 96 

THE  CITY  IDEAL 97 

WITHOUT   END    98 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR 99 

THE  NEMESIS  OF  GERMANY 100 

You  THAT  HAVE  WINGS 100 

THE  LEGION  OF  DEATH 101 

THE  VIOLIN-PLAYER    102 

ON  THE  RIVER  AT  NIGHT 102 

LOVE    Is   DEAD 103 

THE  LIGHT  SUPREME 103 

THE  NIGHT  MOTH 10.4. 

PRISONER  OF  LOVE 105 

THE  PORT  OF  LONELINESS 106 

MY  LOVE  Is  THE  SEA 107 

THE    NEMESIS 108 

THE   LURE 109 

THE   WIND    IN   THE   TREES no 

THE  WOOD   SPEAKS..  no 


THE  FINAL  STAR 


THE  FINAL  STAR 

MEN,  holding  mastery  over  steel  and  stone, 
Dreaming  of  gain  alone, 
Raise  giant  towers  in  challenge  to  the  sky, 
And  set  proud  lights  on  high. 
Beauty  they  seek  not;  but  her  royal  sway 
Returns  like  conquering  day. 

On  cold,  dark  shafts,  where  shrouding  vapor  clings. 

Her  iris  veil  she  flings, 

Giving  them  tender  outlines,  many-hued, 

In  the  air's  solitude. 

Those  mighty  temples,  set  for  sordid  power, 

Wait  on  her  changing  hour, 

And  wear,  in  pageants  of  the  day  and  night, 

Her  variant  robes  of  light; 

They  worship,  as  at  heaven's  very  bars, 

Her  priestly,  marching  stars; 

And  in  her  velvet  darkness  musing  stand 

To  guard  her  magic  land. 

Time  is  her  friend,  and  wills  not  to  destroy 

Her  morning  gleam  of  joy. 

Ruin  itself  reads  laughter  in  her  eyes, 

And  finds  a  fairer  guise. 

All  crafts,  all  projects,  but  her  vassals  are, 

And  she  their  final  star. 


11 


THE  INTERPRETER 

YOU  being  gone,  how  should  I  find  your  mate 
For   gentle   thought  and  brave  imaginings — 
Insight,  and  subtle  fancy,  to  translate 
The  speech  and  soul  of  pure  and  tender  things? 

How  should  the  forest  set  its  music  free, 
Lacking  the  wood-thrush  with  his  silver  call? 

So  should  I  miss  the  fair  earth's  minstrelsy 
Without  your  song,  your  heart,  to  voice  it  all. 

THE  RUSSIAN  COMPOSERS 

THESE    are    the    sorcerers,    who    in    one    song's 
space 

Can  bring  the  ancient  wizardry  of  the  earth — 
Dim,   savage,   primal,   passionate — to   rebirth 
In  sinuous,  thronging  shapes  of  violent  grace. 

Old  war-cries  waken  as  the  march  goes  by; 

New  paths  are  riven  by  those  storming  feet; 

And    through    the    thunders,    mounting    high    and 

sweet, 
Love  sends  the  magic  of  its  tender  cry. 

Their  soul  is  of  a  people  fierce  and  bowed, 
A  great  dumb  spirit  struggling  into  song, 
With  uncouth  joys,  with  moan  of  age-old  wrong, 

And  hope — a  wild  star  flaming  from  a  cloud. 


These  are  the  sorcerers,  who  with  lifted  hand 
Can  show  the  new  earth's  promise,  in  one  gleam- 
The  forward  striving  and  the  beckoning  dream; 

The  red  dawn  stealing  on  a  night-bound  land. 

THE  CITY  AND  THE  SEA 

STRUCK  like  a  blur  of  gold  across  the  night, 
A  stretch  of  quivering  light, 
Shines  the  gay  city  by  the  sombre  sea, 
Flaunting  her  splendor  to  the  very  edge 
Of  that  dim,  pulsing,  far-spread  mystery; 
Cutting  the  darkness  with  her  gleaming  wedge, 
And  flinging  to  his  vastness,  face  to  face, 
The  futile  challenge  of  her  insolent  grace — 
Her  tawdry  crown,  her  fleeting  sovereignty. 
Round  her  bright  robe  his  swirling  waters  spin, 
And  crouched  in  mockery,  fain  to  rend  or  greet, 
With  leonine  murmur  the  strong  tides  creep  in, 
As  fawning  to  her  dancing,  glittering  feet. 

Ever  to  pierce  his  changing  mood  she  strives, 
His   scornful,   turbulent  pride,  his  soul  indrawn; 
She,  foster-mother  of  uncounted  lives, 
He,  guardian  of  life's  dim  portentous  dawn, 

Hoary,  yet  ever  young; 

Mate  of  the  ancient  midnight,  lord  of  days 
Past  memory — unimagined  and  unsung — 


13 


When  the  vast  waters  parted  from  the  lands 
In  hissing  trails  of  mist,  and  through  the  haze 
Eyes  of  stupendous  creatures  shone  like  stars. 

There,  vaguely,  with  her  shifting  brood,  she  stands, 

Wistful,  behind   the   bars 

That  shut  her  soul  from  his;  and  he,  at  play, 
Touches    her    shores     with     long    white    wandering 

hands, 
Then   draws   them  back  along  the   shining  sands, 

Musingly,  day  by  day; 

Or,  answering  to  the  sudden  tempest,  breaks 
In   spume   of  giant  wrath,  and   rearing,   shakes 
Around  her  trembling  pageantry  of  light 
The   thunders   of  his  old  unconquered   might. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   MAN 

LO,  on  the  bare  and  pathless  sky  is  cast 
The  shape  of  mighty  wings;  in  spaces  bright 
The  air  yields  place  to  man's  Titanic  flight, 
Companion  of  the  cloud  and  of  the  blast. 

Oh,  for  the  eyes  that  watched  the  skylark  spring 
From  earth  to  heaven,  a  line  of  song  and  fire; 
Oh,  for  such  lips  of  tuneful  power,  to  sing 

The  starward  flash  of  man's  supreme  desire! 


14 


THE    CHARM    INVINCIBLE 

T  TPHOLD  me  on  the  danger-crest  of  life, 
{-s      O  Mother  City!     Clasp  me  in  thine  arms; 
Enthral  me  with  thy  wild  compelling  charms; 
Sting  me  with  rapture,  buffet  me  with  strife. 

Lure  and  repel  me;  snatch  my  heart  to  thee; 

Fling  me  the  challenge  of  thy  restless  eyes; 

Now  let  me  hate  thee — then  with  swift  surprise, 
Love  thee  again,  and  nevermore  be  free. 

Through  the  pure  quiet  of  the  great  still  nights 
Thy  life  breaks  out, — thy  harsh  reverberant  songs, 
The  pulsing  cadence  of  thy  tramping  throngs, 

The  opulent  glitter  of  thy  myriad  lights. 

My  heart  is  lifted  on  thy  buoyant  tides, 
Thrilled  by  thy  cries  of  revelry  and  woe. 
The  far  hills  call  me,  but  I  may  not  go; 

The  woods  invite  me, — but  thy  spell  abides. 

So  let  me  know  thy  blessing  and  thy  ban, 
And  find  my  soul  reflected  in  thy  face; 
For  all  the  secret  of  thy  passionate  grace 

Is  but  the  magic  of  the  heart  of  man. 


15 


A  LIGHT-BEARER 

HIS  eyes  are  wide  with  scorning 
Of  all  ignoble  things; 
His  soul  is  like  the  morning, 
Astir  with  lifted  wings. 

His  feet  are  slow  to  leaving 
The  dream-paths  of  the  boy; 

His  heart  is  quick  to  grieving, 
His  lips  are  tuned  to  joy. 

The  tender  wind  that  lingers 
Where  April  buds  are  wrought 

Has  touched  with  loving  fingers 
The  harp  that  is  his  thought; 

And,  though  no  voice  may  name  hirr 
With  hint  of  fame  or  power, 

The  soul  of  Spring  shall  claim  him 
Lord  of  her  loveliest  hour. 

God  send  that  time's  unfolding 
Steal  not  his  valiant  youth, 

Nor  dim  his  clear  beholding 
Of  stern  and  radiant  truth; 

Grant  that  he  keep  the  scorning 

Of  all  ignoble  things, 
And  hold,  till  life's  last  morning, 

The  sense  of  lifted  wings! 


16 


SONG   OF   THE   FLIERS 

WE  who  play  with  the  strong  winds  of  heaven 
May  be  shattered  by  their  fearful  mirth; 
We  who  for  their  comradeship  have  striven 

May  be  tossed,  like  vagrant  leaves,  to  earth: 
Yet  we  ride,  to  still  our  mighty  yearning, 

On  the  changeful  billows  of  their  breath; 
Pledge  us,  lest  at  some  ethereal  turning 
We  may  meet  the  mist-white  face  of  Death. 

Few  may  hear  the  siren  voice  that  calls  us; 

Few  may  follow  on  our  perilous  path, 
Know  the  whispered  menace  that  appals  us, 

When  the  gale's  wild  laughter  swells  to  wrath. 
Frail,  too  frail,  the  buoyant  wings  upbearing 

Hearts  that  face  the  hazard  of  the  flight. 
Greet  us,  as  we  snatch  our  day  of  daring 

From  the  very  threshold  of  the  night. 

From  the  clasp  of  earth  like  gods  upspringing, 

Rapt  in  the  wide  wonder  of  our  dream, 
In  our  ears  the  shrill  wind-voices  singing, 

In  our  eyes  the  void's  supernal  gleam: 
We  have  dared  the  eddying  storms  to  bear  us, 

Plunged  within  the  vortex  of  their  strife; 
Victors  then,  though  Death  himself  should  snare  us, 

We  have  touched  the  flaming  verge  of  Life. 


17 


MOTHERHOOD 

FLESH  of  my  flesh,  and  made  of  me, 
Surely   forever  must  you  be 
Mine — mine  alone! 

Drawn  from  my  being,  fathoms  deep, 
On  the  dark  surface  of  my  sleep 
Your  spirit  shone. 

Look  on   me,  look!    What  questions  come 
To  which  your  tender  lips  are  dumb, 

What    burning   doubt! 
I  feel  your  calm  eyes- challenge  me, 
As  from  your  new  life's  sovereignty 

Your  soul  looks  out. 

The  years  will  lure  you  from  my  day; 
I  cannot  follow  on  your  way, 

I  faint  and  fail. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  yet  brought  from   far, 
I  trace  to  some  great  alien  star, 

Your  being's  trail. 

Oh,  lean  to  me,  still  weak  and  dear! 
For  this  brief  space   I  hold  you  near, 

A   flickering  light. 

Till   from   these  arms  your  life   is   drawn, 
And  once  again  your  radiant  dawn 

Breaks  from  my  night. 


18 


YOUTH  SPEAKS  TO  AGE 

YOU  who  forget,  blind  with  the  mist  of  years, 
The  path  you  trod,  whereon  we  follow  after, 
Whose  eyes  no  longer  glisten  with  quick  tears, 

Whose  lips  no  longer  laugh  for  love  of  laughter — 
You  to  whom  sorrow  is  a  crown  of  pride, 

Who  bear  the  scars  of  strife,  the  mark  of  fire, 
Think  you  that  we,  still  groping  and  untried, 
Know  not  the  anguish  nor  the  lost  desire? 

Ours  is  the  burden  of  the  languorous  Spring, 

The  spur  of  longing,  and  the  nameless  pain; 
Ours  are  the  hopes  that  rend,  the  joys  that  sting, 

The  age-long  memories  born  in  us  again; 
The  deep  amaze,  when  love's  great  visions  die, 

When  faith's  vast  promise  falters  from  the  goal; 
Ours  is  the  birth-pang  and  the  human  cry, 

The  brand  of  life,  that  burns  through  flesh  to  soul. 

You  who  can  see  beyond  the  lessening  years, 

You  who  are  past  the  passion  and  the  sorrow, 
Think  how  too  oft  a  shrouding  veil  of  tears 

Hides    from   our   eyes   the    peace    that    dawns    to 
morrow. 
Grudge  not  to  us  the  sudden  flash  of  hope, 

The  morning  dance  of  joy,  the  flame  of  flowers, 
Till  those  long  rays  that  touch  the  darkening  slope 

Bring  to  our  hearts  the  calm  of  fading  hours. 


19 


AGE  CALLS  TO  YOUTH 

AGE  calls  to  Youth 
With  a  low,  longing  cry: 
"Dear  winged  feet, 

Pass  not  so  lightly  by! 
Dear  lips  of  laughter, 

Eyes  of  morning  light, 
Flowers  of  life  and  love, 

Lamps  of  our  coming  night, 
Wells  of  remembrance 

Of  our  happier  days, 
Turn  to  us,  love  us, 

Brighten   to   our  praise!" 

And  Youth  stops  the  flying  dance, 

Standing  poised  awhile, 
Just  for  one  backward  glance 

And  a  fleeting  smile! 

LARGESSE  OF  THE   MOON. 

E  moon  goes  dreaming  through  the  nighi 
-*-       Nor  ever  seems  to  know 
Of  that  vast  miracle  of  light 
Spread  on  the  sea  below, — 
That  path  whereon  all  hearts  may  go, 
Each  to  its  own  delight. 

The  dreaming  moon  seems  not  to  know 
Her  soul's  gift  to  the  night. 

20 


THE  FLIGHT  AND  THE  PASSING 

I  HAVE  risen  to  the  verge  of  cosmic  space; 
The  infinite  Light  has  touched  the  edge  of  my 
wing; 

I  have  looked  over  the  round  rim  of  the  world, 
As  it  circled  my  magic  flight. 
The  fields  and  the  rivers  have  vanished, 
And  the  cities  have  melted  away  beneath  me; 
For  an  instant  they  sparkled  like  jewels, — 
Then  the  white  ocean  of  cloud  rolled  over  them, 
Making  a  sea-path  for  my  burning  keel. 

The  wind  has  struck  me  and  stung  me, 

And  laughed,  and  sung  in  my  ears,  and  flung  away; 

Returning  now  in  wrath,  it  buffets  and  rocks  me, 

And  eddies  in  whirls  about  my  swaying  flight. 

Eyes  look  out  of  the  infinite  waste  of  blue, 

And  pierce  me  with  mockery! 

The  cold  is  a  living  thing, 

To  cling  about  me,  and  press  me, 

And    drive    the    life    in    me    back    to    my    burdened 

heart. 

Lifting — lifting — I    go    from   verge   to    verge, 
Till    mists    of    mighty    wings    are    beating    around 

me, 

And  I  hear  their  music  arise,  a  deep  diapason, 
And  feel  the  Presences  of  space. 


21 


The  great  angels  are  jealous! 

They  who  guard  the  flight  of  the  eagles, 

And    tread    the    paths    where    only    the    winds    have 

run. 

They  have  drawn  the  air  from  beneath  me. 
And  made  vast  chasms  under  my  fragile  wings. 
....   I  drop— I  fall!  .... 

The  eddies  suck  me  down  to  the  depths  of  air.  .  .  . 
They  are  lifting,  with  giant  hands, 
The  soul  away  from  my  flesh. 

Lo — now  there  are  wings  no  longer, 
No  longer  the  clamor  of  flight, 
Nor  the  rush  of  wind, 

Nor  the  terror 

Wings  and  body  are  flung  like  wandering  leaves, 
Rocking  and    swaying   through   billows    of   yielding 

mist, 
To  the  cruel  breast  of  the  waiting  earth! 

But   I   stay— I  lift— I   lift—! 
Arms  under  me — eyes  above  me — 
Warm,  warm  and  still — I  lie — 
And  drift — and  drift  away — 
Into  infinite  rest. 


A  TOAST 

HERE'S  to  the  old  Earth,  and  here's  to  all  that's 
in   her, 
To    the    soil   of   her,    and    the    toil    of    her,   and   the 

valiant  souls  that  win  her; 
To  the  hope  she  holds,  and  the  gift  she  grants,  her 

hazards  and   her  prizes, 

To  the  face  of  her,  and  the  grace  of  her,  and  all 
her  swift  surprises. 

Here's  to  her  mighty  dawns,  with  rose  and  golden 

splendor; 
To  the   heights  of  her,  and  the  nights   of  her,  her 

Springs    and    their    surrender; 
Her    storms    and   her    frozen    seas,    and    the    mystic 

stars  above  her, 
The  fear  of  her,  and  the  cheer  of  her,  and  all  the 

brave  that  love  her. 

Here's  to  her  valleys  warm,  with  their  little  homes 
to  cherish; 

The  gleam  of  her,  and  the  dream  of  her,  and  the 
loves  that  flower  and  perish; 

To  her  cities  rich  and  gray,  with  their  stern  life- 
chorus  ringing, 

The  noise  of  her,  and  the  joys  of  her,  and  the 
sighs  beneath  the  singing. 


23 


Here's   to    her   endless   youth,    her    deaths    and    her 

reviving; 
The  soul  of  her,  and  the  goal  of  her,  that  keeps  her 

ever  striving; 
Her  little  smiling  flowers,  and  her  comforting  grass 

and  clover, 
And    the   rest   of   her    on    the    breast    of   her,   when 

striving  days  are  over. 

Here's    to    the    old    Earth,    with    all    her    countless 

chances; 
The   heart   of  her,   and   the   art   of  her,   her   frowns 

and  tender  glances; 
With  all  her  dear  familiar  ways  that  held  us  from 

the  starting; 
Long  might  to  her  I    And  good  night  to  her,  when 

the  hour  is  struck  for  parting. 

THE  EYES  OF  LOVE 

BLIND  souls,  who  say  that  Love  is  blind! 
He  only  sees  aright; 
His  only  are  the  eyes  that  find 
The  spirit's  inner  light. 

He  lifts,  while  others  grope  and  pry, 

His  gaze  serene  and  far; 
And  they  but  see  a  waste  of  sky 

Where  Love  can  see  the  star. 


24 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  WOMAN 

MARY,  Mother,  hearken  and  heed! 
Heed  thou  the  woman's  cryl 
Thou  who  hast  seen  thy  Dearest  bleed, 
Looked  on  Him  in  His  bitter  need, 
Helplessly  standing  by! 

When  our  children  plead  and  moan, 
When  the  small  hands  clasp  our  own, 
When  to  tender  heart  and  brain 
Strikes   our   heritage    of  pain, 
And  we  strive  in  vain  to  share 
All  their  weaker  flesh  must  bear — 
Mary,  Mother,  hearken! 

When   they  tread   the   pathway   sore 
Where  our  feet  have  toiled  before; 
When  the  stress  of  storm  and  woe 
Lays  their  power  and  beauty  low; 
When  their  lives  are  lost  and  spent, 
Stained  with   sin,  and  passion-rent — 
Mary,  Mother,  hearken! 

When  the  tongues  of  strife  give  cry, 
And  our  sons  go  out  to  die; 
When  the  crucial  hour  must  come 


25 


And  the  lips  of  love  are  dumb, 
And  the  touch  of  love  is  vain 
On  the  cold  hands  clenched  in  pain — 
Mary,  Mother,  hearken! 

Mary,  heed  thou  the  woman's  cry! 

Mother,  listen   and   hear! 
Thou  who  hast  seen   thy   Dearest  die, 
Under  the  darkened  noonday  sky, 

Dauntlessly  standing  near! 

THE  LETTER 

THIS  is  my  message,  that  shall  reach  you,  dear, 
When  I  have  fled  away.     Now,  in  full  life, 
Vibrant  to  joy  and  grief,  to  love  and  strife, 
I  look  toward  death  and  dark,  to  bring  you  near. 

Some  words  there  are,  too  tender  and  too  deep 
For  any  speech  or  song  that  love  may  know; 
Borne  are  they  from  the  spirit's  underflow 

On  those  ethereal  tides  that  move  in  sleep; 

Strange  calm  replies  to  some  obscure  demands 
Of  love,  not  voiced  by  any  lips  that  live; 
Light,  pure  caresses,  which  we  long  to  give, 

Yet  may  not  with  the  touch  of  fleshly  hands. 

These  would  I  send  you  when  I  stand  arrayed 
In  death's  pale  robing  of  auroral  light, 
When  my  far  speech  falls  like  the  dew  of  night 

Out  of  the  silence  where  all  songs  are  made; 

26 


When  all  my  looks  are  stars;  when  my  soul's  word 
Is  precious  to  your  soul, — then  shall  you  hear 
Of  all  that  made  you  great  to  me  and  dear, 

And  know  the  waveless  deeps  your  life  has  stirred. 

Then  to  your  inmost  vision  shall  be  bared 
Our    hidden    nearnesses;    the    high    desires 
That  rose  in  each,  and  met  in  subtle  fires; 

The  wordless  dream,  the  hope  that  we  have  shared. 

This  is  my  message,  framed  with  tenderest  art 
To  wait  the  magic  of  the  coming  night; 
And  for  my  writing  Death  shall  hold  the  light, 

And  for  your  reading  shall   unveil   my  heart. 

THE   DREAMS   DENIED 

OUR  lives  are  molded  by  the  things  we  miss. 
Not  by  Love's  answering  eyes,  not  by  his  kiss, 
But  by  Love's  hunger  do  we  learn  Love's  bliss. 

Our  growth  must  answer  to  the  swell  and  strain 
Of  thew  and  sinew  toward  the  ultimate  gain; 
The  warrior's  worth  is  measured  by  his  pain. 

Upward  our  hopes  are  flung,  like  tongues  of  fire. 
The  dreams  denied  unendingly  aspire; 
The  soul  must  take  the  shape  of  its  desire. 


27 


A  MOTHER 

SON,  throned  upon  my  knee — 
Son,  ruling  in   my  heart! 
I  am  fulfilled  in  thee, 
Knowing  no  life  apart. 

If  on  the  rocking  wave 
Thy  little  bark  must  drown, 

There  must  I  find  a  grave — 
There  must  my  soul  go  down. 

Into  thy  being  tossed, 
With  thee  I  fail  or  win; 

Saved  in  thy  strife,  or  lost, 
Mine  is  thy  very  sin. 

Thy  nobleness,  thy  power, 
Shall  lift  me  to  their  grace; 

My  life  is  but  thy  dower, 
And  thine  my  dwelling-place. 

Son,  throned  upon  my  knee, 
Thine  am  I  to  destroy; 

Oh,  be  thou  great  for  me — 
Build  me  a  deathless  joy! 


28 


PEACE 

A  MAN  wished  for  peace, 
And   flung  away  the   sword  which  was   given 

to  his  hand; 

Then  Evil  came  as  if  to  smite  him; 
But  it  smote  him  not. 
It  smote  instead   the  little   children   who  had  crept 

under  his  shadow, 

And  the  woman  he  had  sworn  to  guard, — 
The  old,  the  helpless,  the  innocent. 
So  the  man  stood  alone  among  ruin  and  sorrow. 
He  stood  at  peace; 
But  war  and  bitterness  were  in  his  soul. 

A  man   wished   for  peace; 

And  he  held  the   sword   before   him 

As  a  pillar  of  cloud  and  fire; 

And  as  it  moved  it  made  light  around  him; 

And  the  little  children  crept  into  the  circle  of  light. 

And  when   Evil  came  against  him  the   man   struck 

with  all  his  power, 
And  they  closed  in  mortal  strife. 
The  sword  drank  blood, 
And   Evil  slunk  away  vanquished; 
But  the  man   fell. 

Then  the  helpless  ones  looked  on  him  with  shining 

eyes; 
The  Future  looked  on  him  in  their  eyes, 


29 


And  love  and  hope  and  beauty  were  saved. 
And  the  man's  soul  went  out  in  a  deep  peace. 


THE    RESURRECTION 

ALIGHT  comes  up  in  the  eastern  sky: 
"Now  what  have  'we  to  do  with  day?" 
(The  grief-struck  Galileans  say) — 
"We  who  have  seen  the  Master  die. 
We   cannot   face   the   bitter  morrow; 
Ah,  let  us  sleep  for  sorrow!" 

The  light  is  dim  in  the  pallid  sky: 
"Now  what  have  we  to  do  with  sleep?" 
(The   sad   eyed  women  sigh,  and  weep)  — 

"We    saw    our    Best-Beloved    die; 
Let  us  go  forth  and  meet  the  morrow, 
Who  cannot  rest,  for  sorrow!" 

The  light  grows  in  the  reddening  sky: 
"Now  what  hath  He  to  do  with  death?" 
(Hear  what  the  shining  angel  saith!) 

"Look  not  for  Him  'mong  those  who  die; 

Haste  ye  and  see!" 
— The   dawn  flames  wide, 
He  stands  at  Mary's  side! 


30 


VERDUN 

VERDUN,  city  of  sorrow! 
With  her  war-swept,  blackened  spaces, 
Her  crumbled,  poor  home-places 
Whence  all  her  children  fled; 
With  her  streets  that  know  no  tread 
Save  that  of  her  worn  defenders, — 
City  of  mournful  splendors, 
Stern  and  lovely  and  tragic, — 
She  shall  be  clothed  with  magic. 
Who  bears  her  scars  upon  his  breast 
Happy  is  he! 

And  as  a  shrine  forever  blest 
Her  walls  shall  be. 

Verdun,  city  of  thunder, 

City  of  flame, — 

As  the   sound  of  a  host  singing 

Shall  be  her  name; 

The  sound  of  a  great  host  singing, 

The  tread  of  a  marching  mass, 

The  call  of  a  great  cry  ringing — 

"They  shall  not  pass!" 

For  through   the   strife   that   tore   her 

The  sword  of  France  before  her 

Lay  like  a  golden  bar; 

And  in  the  night  of  the  nations 

She  is  a  star. 


31 


THE    CATHEDRAL 
From  the   French   of   Edmond   Rostand 

THEY  could  but  grant  thee  more  immortal  grace, 
And    endless    life, — the    ghouls    that    ravaged 
thee; 

Ask  Phidias,  ask  Rodin,  if  souls  that  see 
Thy  ruins,  shall  not  know  thy  radiant  face. 
The  shattered  fort  must  perish  from  its  place; 
The  riven  Temple  lives  more  gloriously; 
And  lifted  eyes  find  heaven  itself  set  free 
From  prisoning  stone,  beyond  the  fretted  space. 

We    render    thanks!    We    lacked    what    Greece    had 

known, 

Her    golden    columns    crushed    and    overthrown, 
But  made  more  sacred  by  man's  harsh  intent. 

Thanks  for  the  gift  the  insensate  cannon  won; 
Our  foes'  dark  skill  has  left  a  monument, 

For  them  a  Shame — for  us  a  Parthenon! 

AMERICA  TO  BELGIUM 

YOU  who  are  bound  with  dragging  chains, 
Numbed  and  seared  with  a  thousand  pains, 
Flung  in  the  trail  of  the  foe's  mad  lust, 
Pressed  by  the  goad  of  his  dark  desire; 
You  whose  sword  was  a  lightning  thrust, 
You  whose  heart  was  a  shield  of  fire — 
By  your  broken  blade,  by  your  shining  deed, 
Pity  us,  pray  for  us,  you  who  bleed! 

32 


We  who  have  seen  and  praised  your  power, 
Yet  stayed  our  hand  in  your  crucial  hour; 
We  who  have  lost,  through  sordid  fears, 
The  lifted  spirit,  the  singing  breath, 
The  gift  and  guerdon  of  nobler  years, 
The  eyes  that  see  beyond  woe  and  death — 
Your  palm  and  crown  have  passed  us  by; 
Pray  for  us,  pity  us,  we  who  die! 

We  who  have  known  the  splendid  dream, 
We  who  have  watched  its  fading  gleam, 
What  shall  bring  us  the  kindling  word, 
Free  us  from  blindness,  smite  us  with  dread? 
Though,  by  your  glory  and  anguish  stirred, 
Humbly  we  bring  you  our  dole  of  bread — 
Greater  the  gift  your  soul  can  give; 
Cry  to  us,  waken  us,  you  who  live! 


THE  VICTORY 

THE  great,  broken  Victory, 
With  mighty  wings  and  breast, 
Back-flowing  robes,   and   light 
Feet  that  are  touched  with  flight; 
The  white,  moving  Mystery, 
Eternally  storm-pressed — 
Ah,  what  is   she? 


33 


I  watch  her  royal  pose, 

Her  strong  wings  backward  beating, 

And  her  proud  bosom,  meeting 
A  wind  that  harshly  blows; 
And  the  heart  within  me  cries 
For  sight  of  those  lost  eyes! 
How  all  the  might  of  her 

Would  gather  in  their  gaze, 
And   all   the   light   of  her 

Flame   in   their  morning-rays! 

But,  as  I  watch,  I  see 

My  dream  take   form! 
Above  the  wings'  wide  grace, 

Against  the  burning  blue, 

Grows  dimly  into  view 
A  white  ecstatic  face, 
With  listening  look  intent 

In  the  deep  heedful  eyes, 
As  one,  with  force  unspent, 

Who  hears  wild  thunders  rise, 
And  meets  the  storm! 

The  great,  living  Victory, 
With  mighty  wings  and  breast, 
With   passionate   conflict   stressed, 
And  that  high,  visioned  face 
Wrought  in  supernal  space, 
Ah,  who  is  she? 


34 


Steadfast,  yet  gracious;  fleet, 

And  magically  strong, — 
Hers  are  the  venturing  feet, 

Hers  are  the  lips  of  song, 
And  hers  the  starry  glance — 
The  flaming  soul — of  France! 

ENSLAVED 

WHO  is  enslaved?     Belgium?     Never — 
She  who  stood  to  her  soul's  endeavor! 
The  crown  of  her  King  is  a  light  forever. 

Who  is  enslaved?     Beloved  France, 

With  her  steadfast  heart  and  her  upward  glance? 

Her  every  son  has  a  man's  high  chance. 

Who  is  enslaved?    England?    No! 

With  her  mighty  gesture,  strong  and  slow, 

And  her  face  like  flint  to  the  savage  foe. 

What  of  America?    Slaves  are  we! 
Shackled  on  land  and  scorned  at  sea. 
O  God  of  hosts!     Set  Thy  people  free — 

Free  to  choose,  and  free  to  stand, 
Free  to  answer  our  soul's  demand — 
To  strike  with  a  swift,  unfaltering  hand! 


35 


Here  is  the  sword,  keen  as  of  old, 
Straight  as  a  beam  of  morning  gold; 
Shall  it  fall  away  from  our  listless  hold? 

Who  but  we  should  right  the  wrong — 
Stand  with  the  true,  fight  with  the  strong? 
Come,  my  Land,  with  a  cry  and  a  song! 
America! 


THE  ANSWER 

'T>HERE  is  one  answer  to  all  dreams  of  ease — 
•*•      Belgium! 
One  answer  to  the  Teuton's  cunning  pleas — 

Belgium! 

One  test  and  touchstone  for  all  hearts  that  feel; 
One  word  that  is  a  stroke  of  steel  on  steel, 
A  stroke  whose  clangor  sets  a  long  note  ringing 
That  falls  upon  our  ears  like  distant  singing. 

One  word  for  you  who  say  the  strife  must  cease- 
Belgium! 
Justice  to  her  must  hold  the  key  of  peace — 

Belgium! 

And  you  who  clamor  that  our  cry  should  be 
Not    love    of    country,    but    Humanity, 
Have  you  not  heard  it,  as  you  pass  unheeding? 
Humanity!    In  her  the  world  lies  bleeding! 


Not  she  alone  the  dark  decree  must  know — 

Belgium! 
The  first  in  that  great  sisterhood  of  woe, 

Belgium! 

She  speaks,  my  Country,  with  your  own  lost  dead; 
She    brings    one    answer    to    your    shrinking    dread; 
Draw  now  your  sword,  and  set  the  clear  stroke  ring 
ing 
That  falls  upon  our  hearts  like  mighty  singing! 

Belgium! 

THE  FLAG  IS  UP 

THE  flag  is  up! 
The  symbol  again  of  liberty, 
Again  of  justice, 
Again  of  power; 
O  flag  of  mine, 
This  is  once  more  your  hour! 
What  have  you  been  to  me 
Within  these  bitter  years? 
Flouted  on  land  and  sea, 
An  outworn  sign,  a  mockery, 
A  thing  of  shame  and  tears! 
The  dreamers  have  sung  to  you, 
Flaunted  you  as  of  old, 
Hailed  you — as  a  tale  oft  told 
Whose  meaning  is  gone; 
Suddenly  now  in  a  new  dawn 


37 


The  hearts  of  millions  of  men 
Have  awakened  and  sprung  to  you; 
O  flag  of  mine, 

They  know  you  again! 

/ 
Under  your  very  folds 

Little  children  have  died, 

Whom  you  should  have  sheltered; 

Men  and  women  have  sighed 

In  helpless  despair, 

And  you — you — have  mocked  them  there! 

We  took  your  glory  away — 

The  sword  of  righteousness, 

Your  old  and  dear  companion, 

That  only  could  shield  and  bless; 

We  left  you  the  sport  and  prey 

Of  the  winds  at  play — 

The  dupe  and  the  hissing  scorn 

Of  men  without  truth  or  pity; 

And  the  blood  that  left  a  stain 

Was  the  blood  of  the  innocent,  slain 

In  many  a  Belgian  city, 

(Where  every  broken  stone  is  a  tomb  of  the  brave), 

The  helpless,  that  even  your  shadow — 

O  sword! — O  flag  of  mine! — 

Would  once  have  been  strong  to  save. 

But  now  you  are  lifted  up, 
The  symbol  again  of  mercy, 


38 


Again  of  justice, 

Again   of  power. 

You   shall  lead  a  host 

Against  ruthless  and  bitter  wrong, 

A  host — the  ranks  of  God — 

Millions   on   millions   strong; 

And  you  shall  defend  a  fortress, 

A  fortress  of  right, 

Where  a  sword  shall  be  lifted  high 

In  God's  own  light, 

Against  a  dark  besieging  mass; 

And  where  you  fly — 

Flag — flag  of  mine — 

They  shall  not  pass! 

EDITH  CAVELL 

ENGLAND,  be  glad  of  her,  as  she  was  glad 
Of  life  that  ended  so,  in  fullest  bloom 
Of  perfect  giving.    This  at  least  she  had — 
The  old-time  splendor  of  heroic  doom. 

Not  to  all  women  comes  so  rich  a  grace, 
To  find  at  peril's  height  the  ultimate  good, 

And  grant  thus  to  their  country  and  the  race 
The  fearless  force  of  their  strong  womanhood. 

So,  be  her  death  remembered — and  not  less 
Her  life  of  ministry  to  friend  and  foe; 

Her  soul  shall  be  a  song,  to  lift  and  bless 
The  records  of  an  immemorial  woe. 
39 


A   THANKSGIVING 

NOT  for  our  harvest, 
Our  fields'  increase, 
Not  for  our  safety, 

Our  vaunted  peace, 
Our  word-clad  justice, 
Our  light-flung  gift, 
But  for  hearts  that  waken, 
For  dreams  that  lift — 
We  praise  Thee,   O   God! 

For  Belgium's  sword 

That  faltered  never, 
For  the  splendid  woe 

Of  her  lost  endeavor; 
For  the  great  free  peoples 

In  grim  advance, 
For  the  might  of  England, 

The  light  of  France— 
We  praise  Thee,  O  Godl 

For  Italy's  flower 

Of  fearless  youth; 
For  Russia's  waking 

From  dream  to  truth; 
For  the  flame  of  Serbia 

That  mounts  in  death, 
The  fire  that  fails  not 

With  blood  and  breath — 
We  praise  Thee,  O  Godl 
40 


For  dull  ease  broken 

By  sharpest  dole, 
For  the  dart  that  is  driven 

Through  flesh  to  soul; 
For  wrath  made  sterner 

By  right's  eclipse, 
For  brave  songs  breaking 

From  pain-wrung  lips — 
We   praise    Thee,    O    God! 

For  faith  that  is  born 

From  the  burning  nest, 
For  the  spirit's  flight 

On  its  starward  quest, 
For  peace  that  dwells 

At  the  heart  of  strife, 
For  death  that  scatters 

The  seed  of  life — 
We  praise  Thee,  O  God! 


41 


GERMANY 

OLAND  of  music  and  of  dream, 
Your  songs  are  dead! 
O  morning-rose,   O  twilight-gleam, 

Forever  fled! 

Now,  through  your  thunder-cloud  of  wrath, 
We  see  but  frenzy's  aftermath — 
Stark  ruin  following  every  path 
Your  legions  tread. 

Was  this  your  dream — a  baleful  light 

In  stormy  space? 
Your  soul — a  threatening  shape  of  blight, 

With  hate-wrung  face? 
What  madness  moves  you,  to  rejoice 
In  women's  woe — in  terror's  voice? 
Is  this  the  music  of  your  choice, 

Your  song  of  grace? 

Now  from  your  shattered  flutes  we  hear 

A  long,  harsh  cry, 
The  note  of  passion  and  of  fear, 

That  will  not  die; 
And  ever,  on  the  desolate  sea, 
Your  shamed  and  haunted  ships  must  flee 
Child-faces,  floating  silently 

Under  God's  sky. 


42 


IN  NO-MAN'S  LAND 

IN  No-Man's  Land,  where  every  tree 
Is  tortured  from  its  gracious  guise, 
In  stark  and  twisted  boughs  we  see 

Three  phantom  crosses  rise; 
One  is  the  cross  of  children  slain, 

And  one  the  cross  where  heroes  died, 
And  one  the  royal  throne  of  pain 
Of  Christ  the  Crucified. 

In  No-Man's  Land,  where  now  no  more 

To  earth's  scarred  fields  the  grasses  cling, 
Three  thorn-boughs  lie  across  that  door 

That  shuts  us  from  the  Spring; 
And  one  is  blossoming  pure  and  white 

As  children's  breasts;  and  one  drips  down 
With   blood   of  heroes   in   the   fight; 

And  one  is  Christ's  own  crown. 

In  No-Man's  Land,  where  threatening  night 

Is  kinder  than  the  dreadful  day, 
Three  roses  yet  shall  bloom  in  light 

Along  the  desolate  way; 
All  white  and  red  the  twain  shall  spring, 

Of  innocence  and  courage  born; 
The  third  Lord  Christ  himself  shall  bring 

On    Resurrection    Morn. 


43 


THE  AIRMAN 

I  WAS  born  for  open  spaces, 
Which  the  wandering  tempest  fills; 
Not  for  me  the  secret  places 

In  the  deep  heart  of  the  hills; 
Neither  sea  nor  plain  enthralls  me, 

To  a  lonelier  vastness  vowed; 
'Tis  the   upper  air  that  calls   me, 
And  the  white  breast  of  the  cloud. 

With  the  empty  blue  above  me, 

With  the  gale  beneath  my  wing, 
I  must  woo  the  void  to  love  me, 

Teach  the  silent  air  to  sing. 
As   the  wanderer  knows  the   highways, 

As  the  sailor  knows  the  sea, 
So  the  shifting,  trackless  byways 

Yield  their   mysteries   to   me. 

Where  the  great  wind-currents  hold  me 

In  their  treacherous,  chill  embrace; 
Where  the  curling  mists  enfold  me — 

There  my  heart  has  found  her  place. 
As  the  wild  air-tides  are  riven 

Where  I  press  my  burning  flight, 
To  their  charge  my  life  is  given, 

And  my  soul  to  their  delight. 


44 


A  REPLY  TO  ENGLAND 
(A  reply  to  a  poem  of  Alfred  Austin's,  1898) 

ON   wings  of  a   wind  that  sweeps 
The  wild  northeastern  sea, 
Sounding  over  the  vibrant  deeps 

Where  the  great  swift  ships  ride  free, 
We    have    heard   the    song   of   a   wakening   hope,    a 
glory  that  yet  may  be. 

We  have  challenged  the  welcome  voice, 

And  this  is  the  word  we  hear: 
"Because  you  have  made  the  nobler  choice 

To  all  free  peoples  dear, 

To  break  the  force  of  a  tyrant-grasp,  and  end  the 
rule  of  fear; 

"Because   you   have   risen   at   length, 

In  your  old  heroic  guise, 
And  thrown  the   shield  of  your  love  and  strength 

Over  a  race  that  dies, 

Striving    and    bleeding    before    your    gates,    under 
your  pitying  eyes; 

"For  this  brave  passion,  we — 

Who  alone  can  understand, 
Because  we  are  kindred  souls  and  free — 

We  stretch  you  a  brother's  hand! 
And  who  shall  face  us,  together,   nor  bend   to  our 
high   command?" 


45 


This  is  the  voice  that  calls 

O'er  the  track  of  the  flying  ships, 
Set  to  the  tune  of  a  song  that  falls 

Sweetly   from  poet-lips, 

The  song  of  a  living  love  and  faith,  long  darkened 
by  strange  eclipse. 

And  the  heart  within  us  leaps 

Till  a  burning  word  takes  flight: 
Waken,  O  giant  power  that  sleeps! 

O  Star  of  Hope,  give  light! 

For  the   day  when  we   two   stand  as   one   is   a   day 
that  finds  no  night. 

Away  with  the  "ancient  wrong"— 

With  the  "wornout  tale"  of  hate! 
We  have  felt  the  touch,  we  have  heard  the  song, 

For  which  the  ages  wait; 

We   have   read   the   rune   of  a   royal   dream   on   the 
shining  roll  of  Fate. 

And   we   trace   the   message   plain 
Which  the  Hand  of  God  hath  lined— 

Never  for  lust  of  power  or  gain 
Be  our  splendid   strength   combined; 

Only    for    right,    for   law   and   light,   and   the    Soul 
that  guides  mankind. 


Oh,  song  on  the  wind  that  sweeps 

The  wild  northeastern   sea, 
Sound  once  more  o'er  the  vibrant  deeps 

For  a  truth  that  yet  shall  be — 

For  the  day  when  we  two  stand  as  one,   guarding 
a  world  set  free! 


BELGIUM 

HEART-struck     she     stands— Our     Lady     of     all 
Sorrows, 

Circled  with  ruin,  sunk  in  deep  amaze, 

Facing  the  shadow  of  her  dark  tomorrows, 

Mourning  the   glory  of  her  yesterdays. 

Yet  is  she  queen  by  every  royal  token, 

There,  where  the  storm  of  desolation   swirled; 

Crowned  only  with  the  thorn,  despoiled  and  broken, 
Her  kingdom  is  the  heart  of  all  the  world. 

She  made  her  breast  a  shield,  her  sword  a  splendor, 
She  rose  like  flame  upon  the  darkened  ways; 

So,  through  the  anguish  of  her  proud  surrender 
Breaks  the  clear  vision  of  undying  praise! 


SALUTATION 

FILL  a  cup  to   Belgium, 
*Hail — ivas  hail! 

She  who  found  the  hidden  shrine 
Of  the*Holy  Grail. 

Drain  a  cup  to  Belgium, 

Drink — drink  hail! 
Nay,  the  cup  is  red  within 

As  the  sunset's  trail! 

Who  can  drink  of  Belgium's  cup? 

Hail — was  hail! 
It  is  brimmed  with  blood  and  tears; 

Is  not  this  the  Grail? 

Lift  the  cup  to  Belgium, 

Drink — drink  hail! 
Nay,  she  drained  it  all  alone — 

She  who  dared  not  fail. 

For  the  Knight  who  is  her  King — 

Hail — was  hail! 
Held  it,  smiling,  to  her  lips, 

Eager  lips,  though  pale. 

Bend  the  knee  to  Belgium, 

Drink — drink  hail! 
See,  her  cup  is  all  alight, — 

She  hath  found  the  Grail! 


*  The  ancient  Saxon  salutation,  "was  hail" — "be 
well."  Hence  wassail.  Also  "trink  haile,"  or  "drink 
health." 

48 


THE  JESTERS 

EV'N  he,  the  master  of  the  songs  of  life, 
May    speak    at    times    with    less    than    certain 
sound; 

"He  jests  at   scars   that   never  felt  a  wound," — 
So  runs  his  word.    Yet  on  the  verge  of  strife, 
They  jest  not  who  have  never  known  the  knife; 

They  tremble  who  in  the  waiting  ranks  are  found, 

While  those  scarred  deep  on  many  a  battle-ground 
Sing  to  the  throbbing  of  the  drum  and  fife. 
They  laugh  who  know  the  open,  fearless  breast, 

The  thrust,  the  steel-point,  and  the  spreading  stain, 
Whose  flesh  is  hardened  to  the  searing  test, 

Whose  souls  are  tempered  to  a  high  disdain; 
Theirs  is  the  lifted  brow,  the  gallant  jest, 

The  long,  last  breath,  that  holds  a  victor-strain 


49 


SAINTE  JEANNE  OF  FRANCE 

SAINTE  JEANNE  went  harvesting  in   France, 
But  ah!  what  found  she  there? 
The  little   streams  were  running  red, 

And  the  torn  fields  were  bare; 
And  all  about  the  ruined  towers 

Where  once  her  king  was  crowned, 
The  hurtling  plows  of  war  and  death 
Had  scored  the  desolate  ground. 

Saint  Jeanne  turned  to  the  hearts  of  men, 

That  harvest  might  not  fail; 
Her  sword  was  girt  upon  her  thigh, 

Her  dress  was  silvern  mail; 
And  all  the  war-worn  ranks  were  glad 

To  feel  her  presence  shine; 
Her  smile  was  like  the  mellow  sun 

Along  that  weary  line. 

She  gave  her  silence  to  their  lips, 

Her  visions  to   their  eyes, 
And  the  quick  glory  of  her  sword 

She  lent  to  their  emprise; 
The   shadow  of  her  gentle  hand 

Touched  Belgium's  burning  cross, 
And  set  the  seal  of  power  and  praise 

On  agony  and  loss. 


50 


Sainte  Jeanne  went  harvesting  in   France, 

And  oh!  what  found  she  there? 
The  brave  seed  of  her  scattering 

In    fruitage  everywhere; 
And  where  her  strong  and  tender  heart 

Was  broken  in  the  flame, 
She  found  the  very  heart  of  France 

Had  flowered  to  her  name. 

OLD  TREASURES 

OH,    things    once    treasured,    things    that    cannot 
die! 

Your    mute    appeal    is    sharper    than    a    cry; 
From  your  light  touch  no  force  can  set  us  free; 
Poor,   frail,  abandoned  toys   of  memory; 
Wreckage  of  lives  passed  out  beyond  recall, 
By  dear,  lost  hands  once  cherished,  and  let  fall; 
Strewn  sadly  o'er  the  ways  our  feet  must  tread; 
Viewed  with  keen  pangs  of  tenderness  and  dread; 
Unused,  inert;  the  dreariest  ghosts  are  ye, 
Doomed  to  a  lifeless  immortality, 
Touched  by  vain  kisses,  watered  by  vain  tears, 
Left  stranded  on  the  bitter  verge  of  years, 
Till  Time  at  last  shall  fling  you,  as  he  must, 
Into  unmarked  oblivion— dust  to  dust! 

This  be  your  word,  poor  drift  of  lives  gone  by: 
That  only  lives  whose  gift  it  is  to  die. 


51 


BY  ORDER  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

FOR  what,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  do  the  young 
soldiers  die — 
The  flower  of  France  and  England — think  you  they 

know  not  why? 
On  the  stormy  floods  of  battle  like  straws  their  lives 

are  tost, 

That  the  rule   of  the  just  free  peoples  be   not  for 
ever  lost. 

And  we,  who  have  wrought  our  freedom,  see  we  no 

sign,  no  light? 
Shall  the  reek  of  carnage  blind  us  to  the  white  star 

of  right? 
Where    are   the    souls   of   our   fathers,   full    statured 

men,  who  saw 
That  Christ,   Who  died  for  the  people,  had   left  to 

the  world  a  Law? 

This  is  the  law  to  bind  us,  when  sense  and  self  go 

wild, — 
That  the  sword  be  strong  for  mercy,  that  the  shield 

be  over  the  child, 
That   the    great    eternal    standards   ride    high   above 

the  strife, 
And   the    Soul   of  a   mighty   people   be   dearer   than 

blood   or   life. 


52 


A1 


THE  SONG 

LONG    the    misty    beaches,    where    the    great 

wind-voices  cry, 
Where  the  sea's  reverberant  thunder  sends  its  chal 
lenge  to  the  sky, 
And  its  distant  echoes  lure  us,  from  the  countries 

where  they  die — 
A   song  is   sounding  on. 

I  can  hear  it,  clear  and  urgent,  over  all  the  breakers' 

rage; 

It  is  pleading  for  the  memory  of  a  noble  heritage; 
'Twas  a  woman's  voice  that  sang  it,  in  a  lost  heroic 

age — 
Its  call  is  sounding  on. 

"Mine   eyes   have  seen   the  glory   of  the   coming   of  the 

Lord: 
He   is   trampling   out   the   vintage   where   the   grapes    of 

wrath  are  stored. 
He  has  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  siaift 

sword; 
His  truth  is  marching  on." 

It    is    calling    with    the    sea-winds    far    across    the 

troubled  wave, 
Where  Belgium  in  her  beauty  lies  all  one  trampled 

grave, 


53 


And  still  her  proud  defenders  lift  the  paean  of  the 

brave — 
Her  soul  is  marching  onl 

It  cries  along  the  bloody  fields,   from  Russia  back 

to  France, 
Where    the    great    united    nations    hold    the    savage 

foe's  advance. 

Where  the  stars  above  the  trenches  meet  the  sol 
dier's   dying  glance — 
Its  call  is  sounding  on. 

"/  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel; 
As  ye  deal  with  My  contemners,  so  with  you  My  grace 

shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,   born   of  woman,   crush   the   serpent  with 

his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

My  country — oh,   my   country!      Clear-sighted   once 

and  strong, 
A  shield  for  the  defenseless  and  a  flame  against  the 

wrong, 
True  to  the  ringing  echoes  of  that  mighty  marching 

song 
That  still  is  sounding  on — 


94 


My    country — oh,    my    country!    The    dreadful    fires 

are  free! 
Their  children  died  in  burning  homes,  and  ours  upon 

the  sea. 
By   Christ  who  died   for  mercy,  is  it  nothing  unto 

thee, 
While  God  is  marching  on? 

"He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 

retreat; 
lie  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment 

seat; 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!     Be  jubilant,  my 

feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on." 


65 


TO  THE  MOTHERS 

MOTHERS  of  men,  do  you  not  know 
What  you  gave  to  the  world  in  your  hour  of 
woe? 

Born  of  courage,  and  doomed  to  stress, — 
A  man  for  the  tasks  of  men — no  less! 

Mothers  of  women,  can  you  not  feel 

What  all  the  signs  of  your  life  reveal? 

You  have   brought   forth   love,   with   its   sword  and 

fire, 
And  love's  high  crown  is  the  lost  desire. 

Mothers   of  men,   have  you  not  known 
That  the  soul  of  the  child  is  not  your  own? 
If  God  has  sealed  him  for  palm  and  cross, 
To  hold  him  close  were  your  bitter  loss. 

Mothers,  mothers,  will  you  not  see 
All  that  your  gift  to  the  world  may  be? 
These  who  must  fight  a  wrong  abhorred 
Are  Michael's  angels,  who  bear  the  sword. 

Mothers  of  men,  then  loose  your  hold! 
Love  grants  more  than  your  arms  enfold; 
Under  the  Cross  you  stand  apart 
With   Mary's   sword  in   your  dauntless   heart. 


56 


THE  POETS 

DEAR  weavers  of  the  unending  song, 
Of  the  dream  that  shines  forever, 
Follow  me  out  of  the  weary  throng 
To  the  fields  of  fair  endeavor. 

Follow  me  where  the  pipers  play 

That  lure  the  wanderer's  spirit, 
Into  the  land  of  laughing  day 

That  the  ever-young  inherit. 

Dear  children  of  the  undying  light, 

Of  the  never-lost  desire, — 
Ye  shall  find  the  stars  in  the  heart  of  night, 

Though  the  cloud  may  veil  their  fire. 

Out  of  your  souls  shall  never  die 
The  wind-wrought  spell  of  morning; 

The  world  shall  watch  your  steps  go  by, 
Half  wistful,   and  half  in   scorning. 

Dear  lovers  of  the  eternal  dream, 
Of  the  fleeting  fair  endeavor, — 

Follow  me  where  the  white   stars  gleam, 
And  souls  are  young  forever. 


67 


A  ROOM 

'T^HIS  is  the   room:   the  void  bleak  space 

Where   set  the   starlight  of  her  face. 
Within  it,  life's  persistent  cry 
Drops  to  the  echo  of  a  sigh; 
Its  few  poor  treasures  shrink  and  pine 
Like  wreaths  on  some  forsaken  shrine; 
And  on  its  melancholy  walls 
Coldly   the   morning   radiance    falls. 
Death's  shadow  drove  its  soul  of  light 
Far  upward,  beyond  dream  of  sight, 
And  left  it  here,  in  lonely  state, — 
Bare,  silent,  dim,  disconsolate. 


A    DEATH. 

I  SAW  a  woman  stand  beside  a  bed 
Where  lay  her  love  of  years,  but  one  hour  dead. 
She  stood  dry  eyed,  as  one  who  finds  no  balm 
For  an  old  grief,  long  held  in  bitter  calm. 
The  silence  throbbed.     At  last  her  cold  lips  stirred, 
And  through  their  whiteness  crept  one  quiet  word, 
Brought  from  the  deep  of  some  unuttered  woe: 
"How  should  I  weep?     He  died  long  years  agol" 


68 


THE  FIRST  LOVE 

SHE   is   yours,   without   sigh   or   scorning, 
Your  lady  of  youth  and  dream; 
She  is  lost,  as  we  lose  the  morning 

But  keep  the  dew  and  the  gleam. 
She  has  given  you   song  and  laughter, 

She  has  opened  the  doors  of  pain, 
And  whatever  gift  comes  after 
Is  rich  with  her  spirit's  gain. 

All  loves  that  your  life  has  cherished, 

All  lips  that  your  lips  have  kissed, 
Shall  be  sweet  with  the  grace  that  perished, 

Shall  be  dowered  with  the  charm  you  missed. 
She  will  flit  like  a  wraith  before  you, 

As  you  look  in  your  love's  calm  eyes, 
And  the  tempest  of  grief  that  tore  you 

Shall  seem  as  a  wind  that  sighs. 

You  shall  hear  her  far-off  singing 

In  the  rustling  trees  at  night, 
And  her  by-gone  laughter  ringing 

In   the  children's  young  delight; 
For  the  notes  that  love  has  fluted 

When   the  years  were   sweet  and  long, 
To  the  being  of  life  transmuted, 

Are  held  in  every  song. 


59 


THE   WIRES 

WE  are  the  nerves  of  the  world, 
The  threads  of  fate  are  we, 
Whether  in  coil  and  spiral  curled, 

Or  flung  over  land  and  sea; 
From  hoards  of  the  ages  brought, 
The   great   rocks  yield   our   life; 
With  flame  and  force  is  our  being  wrought, 
With  throes  of  toil  and  strife. 

Over  the  whole  round  globe 

Our  mighty  web  is  spun, 
Woven  out,  as  a  gleaming  robe, 

In  shimmer  of  snow  and  sun; 
Drawn  from  the  clods  of  earth, 

By  a  mounting,  hot  desire, 
We  come,  to  circle  its  utmost  girth 

With    meshes    of   prisoned    fire. 

We  span  the  bounds  of  space 

With  burning,  outstretched  hands; 
The  speech  and  soul  of  a  wakening  race 

Ride  on  our  vivid  strands; 
We  start  the  viewless  waves, 

Bearing  their  hidden  song, 
And  toss  them  down  through  our  slender  staves 

To  the  heart  of  a  waiting  throng. 


60 


We  lift  the  torch  of  light; 

We   drive  the  wheels  of  power; 
Our   careless  force,   through   the   day  and   night, 

Smites  down  the  opposing  hour; 
We  make   the   shining  way 

On  which  man's  word  may  fare; 
He  gives  his  hope  to  our  vibrant  sway, 

His  dream  to  our  paths  of  air. 

We  are  the  harp  of  the  world, 

The  chords  of  life  are  we; 
Through  us  the  song  of  the  sphere  is  hurled 

In  a  storm  of  harmony; 
Forged  in  the  sullen  deeps, 

Strung  through  the  void  above, 
We  ring  with  a  note  that  never  sleeps — 

The  note  of  a  world-wide  love. 


THE   CORAL-BUILDERS 

POOR   coral-builders,    shall    our   work   remain? 
Shaping  an  island  in  the  eternal  sea, 
Whose  great  tides  sweep  around  our  toil  and  pain 
With  laugh  and  gleam,  in  baffling  mystery. 
What  vision   moves  us,   striving  mightily 
To  weld  our  lives  into  the  desolate  strand? — 

We  see  the  sun  and  stars  of  years  to  be 
Pising  in  wonder  on  the  living  land! 


61 


INTERPRETED 

A  WIND  came  shoreward,  flavored  with  the  sea; 
Herding  the  waves  it  came, 

Driving  them  trampling  on,  as  they  would  flee 
Before  the  morning's  flame. 

It  woke  them  to  the  inarticulate  song 

Of  spaces  wild  and  stark, 
Where   spars   of  icy  starlight   trail   along 

Cold  stretches  of  the  dark. 

It  reached  a  stern  old  pine-tree,   standing  far 

Above   the   gleaming  beach; 
And  then   I  heard  the  call  of  sea  and  star 

Translated  into  speech! 


THE  CALL  SUPREME 

WE  toil  to  the  goal,  strong-hearted,  giving  nor 
sight  nor  heed 
To  Love,  as  he  goes  before  us,  flitting  with  careless 

speed; 
Sudden    he    turns    in    the    pathway,    smiling — "How 

fares  the  day?" 

And  naught  is  left  for  the  striving — only  to  go  his 
way! 


62 


IN  A  HOSPITAL  WARD 

THIS  is  the  hallway  to  the  courts  of  Death, 
Where  mournful  crowds  besiege  his  inner  gate; 

Here,  prone  in  piteous  rows,  they  rest  and  wait, 
And  measure  weary  hours  with  long-drawn  breath. 
Ah,  house  where  none  for  pleasure  entereth! 

Far  from  the  clamorous  cries  of  love  or  hate, 

Here   Pain  and  Patience  dwell  in   lonely  state, 
And  here  the  dumb  soul  learns  its  shibboleth, 
Password  to  unknown  regions.    Come,  my  heart, 

Steal  in,  and  watch  the  battle  fought  and  won; 
Look  into  wistful  eyes,  where   no  tears  start; 

And  in  these  silent  victories,  praised  by  none, 
Mark  how   the   dauntless  spirit  plays  its  part, 

Though   the   spent   frame   be   vanquished   and   un 
done! 


LOVE'S   REFUGE 

LOVE  fled  from  Death  on  a  summer's  day, 
Lightly  trod   over   fern  and  flower; 
"Ah,  Death,"  he  cried,  "when  the  world  is  gay, 

Seek  me  not,  but  await  thine  hourl 
I  am  welcome  wherever  I  go; 

Gladness   follows  my  steps,"   said  he; 
"For  love  hath  not  in  the  world  a  foe, 
But  thee— but  thee!" 


Love  came  to  Death  on  a  winter's  night, 
Knocked  and  cried  at  the  cold,  closed  door; 

"Shelter  me,  Death,  from  storm  and  blight! 
Wilt   thou   forget  me   forevermore? 

Life  pursues  to  a  cruel  end; 
Refuge  only  is  here,"  said  he; 

"For  Love  hath  not  in  the  world  a  friend 
But  thee— but  thee!" 


THE  HUNTING-CALL  OF  SPRING 

CLEAR  wind  the  horns  of  Spring  again, 
(Hark,  forward— hark!) 
O'er  mellowing  hills  they  ring  again, 

Farewell  to  cold  and  dark! 
Up,  up!  and  brush  the  dew  away; 
The  sun  comes  laughing  through  the  gray, 
To  gild  the  flying  robes  of  May; 
Hark,  forward — hark! 

The  hordes  of  hope  are  out  again; 

(Hark,  forward — hark!) 
Room  for  the  merry  rout  again, 

Whose  revels  chase  the   dark! 
Their  couriers  are  the  dancing  showers, 
And  through  the  song-awakened  hours 
The  bright  ranks  follow — flowers   on  flowers; 

Hark,  forward — hark! 


64 


Beside   the  hurrying  stream  again, 

(Hark,  forward — hark!) 
We'll  find  our  last  year's  dream  again, 

Where  pipes  the  meadow-lark. 
Come,  love  of  mine,  earth's  fairest  thing, 
With  eyes  that  shine  and  lips  that  sing, 
Haste  to  the  ringing  call  of  Spring! 

Hark,  forward — hark! 


NIGHT  SONG 

COME,  my  soul,  and  to  thy  fastness 
Flee  away; 

Close  the  shadowy  doors  of  silence 
On  the  day. 


Come,  and  let  all  hope  and  passion 

Fall  to  rest; 
Let  the  sphinx  of  midnight  fold  thee 

To  her  breast: 


She  whose  ears  nor  moan  nor  murmur 

Ever  reach, 
And  whose  lips  are  closed  to  question 

And  to  speech; 


She  whose  eyes  are  as  the  brooding 

Lights  of  fate, 
And  whose  silence  to  thy  sorrow 

Answers — Wait! 

Thou  shalt  iearn  in  that  pure  stillness 

What  thou  art- 
All  the  wonder  and  the  wisdom 

Of  thy  heart. 

Not  in  dreams,  for  they  are  shadows; 

Not  in  sleep — 
That  is  soulless:    but  in  vision 

Clear  and  deep; 

In  the  rest  nor  pain  nor  longing 

Put  to  flight; 
In  the  sweet  and  cold  Nirvana 

Of  the  night. 

Learn  the  power,  the   calm,  the  worship 

That   shall   be. 
Come,  my  soul!     For  in  the  darkness 

Thou   art    free. 


C6 


A  PORTRAIT 

NOT  hers  the  surly  tigress'  brutal  grace, 
The  leopard's  rather;   fairer  to  the  view, 

Lithe,  sinuous,  deadly.  If  she  smile  on  you 
Dreamily,  with  great  eyes  in  that  white  face, 
Scarce  can  you  tell  if  love  or  hate  have  place 

In  your  heart's  tumult.      But  her  gauge  is  true; 

She  planned  the  moment  when  her  fixed  eyes  drew 
Your  soul  to  hers  and  bridged  the  dizzy  space. 
Dread  instincts  guide  her,  and  are  quick  to  tell 

What  art  may  serve  her  wish, — to  hold  aloof, 
To  fawn,  to  tempt,  to  strike.    She  fashions  well 

Her  net  of  soft  allurements,  warp  and  woof; 
And  no  man  breaks  from  that  pervasive  spell 

Till  heart  and  flesh  and  soul  are  put  to  proof. 


ON  EXHIBITION 

A  GOLDEN  EAGLE 

SAW  him,  nobly  poised,  imprisoned  there, 
In  a  poor  place,  housed  in  a  narrow  cage; 
That  royal  spirit,  lord  of  the  upper  air, 

With  great  wings  folded,  mute  in  sullen  rage. 
And  all  the  luster  of  the  golden  noons, 

And  all  the  splendor  of  the  scattered  stars, 
And  the  fair  glory  of  unclouded  moons, 
Met  in  that  lightning  glance,  behind  the  bars. 


I 


67 


Those  untamed  eyes  that  answered  to  the  sun, 
Now  glittering  in  the   dimness,  turned  on  me; 

I  shall  remember  till  my  race  is  run 
The  still,  proud  anguish  of  that  voiceless  plea. 

THE  MONKEYS 

I,  who  laughed  at  first  at  the  little  solemn  sages, 
Quaint  and  smileless  creatures,  wrinkled  as  with 
years, 

Felt  the  sudden  weight  of  the  sorrow  of  the  ages — 
Saw  the  weird,  small  faces  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

A  BLACK  PANTHER 

In  dumb,  unwearied  protest,  to  and  fro, 
He  paces,  pausing  but  for  food  and  sleep. 

Oh,  for  a  song  to  voice  the  hidden  woe 
Of  those  wild  souls  that  cannot  plead  nor  weep! 

NEW  YORK 

THE  air  and  the  wave  enfold  her, 
River  and  sky  and  sea; 
Cradled  in  light  they  hold  her, 

Circled   in   mystery. 
With  a  tender  touch  they  drape  her, 

At  morning  and  eventide, 
In  a  film  of  jewelled  vapor 
Fit  for  a  royal  bride. 


68 


The  stars  of  the  night  have  crowned  her, 

In  pageant  full  o'erhead; 
And  far,  to  the  verge  around  her, 

Her  zone  of  light  is  spread. 
The  subject  seas  have  brought  her 

All  that  their  tides  control; 
And  the  joy  of  the  breathing  water 

Quickens   her  inmost   soul. 


Where  is  her  peer  in  splendor? 

Whom  shall  she  own  as  lord? 
Richest  that  earth  can  render 

Down  at  her  feet  is  poured. 
Yet  can  no  glories  win  her 

To  deep  and  pure  repose, 
For  the  strong,  proud  heart  within  her 

Aches  with  a  thousand  woes. 


She  who  was  made  to  cherish 

Toiler  and  waif  and  slave, 
Weeps  that  her  children  perish, 

Spoiled  of  the  hope  she  gave; 
Mourns  for  her  freedom's  dower, 

Lost  in  the  strife  for  gold, 
While  the  sword  of  her  sovereign  power 

Drops  from  her  listless  hold. 


69 


Yet,  as  the  tides  sweep  round  her, 

Her  mighty  pulses  thrill, 
And  the  chains  that  long  have  bound  her 

Shake  with  her  wakening  will. 
Slowly  the  links  are  broken; 

Shall  not  she  bear  at  last 
Only  the  solemn  token 

Of  pain  and  thraldom  past? 

The  air  and  the  wave  enfold  her, 

River  and  sky  and  sea; 
Lo!  in  a  dream  behold  her, 

Crowned  as  she  yet  may  be! 
Still  is  she  freedom's  daughter, 

Noble  in  joy  or  dole; 
And  the  life  of  the  great  glad  water 

Quickens  her  inmost  soul. 

THE  WATERFALL 

HERE,  where  the  eternal  waters  fling  themselves, 
Motion  itself  stands  still.     The  flashing  storm 
Of  change  has  wrought  itself  in  changeless  form, 
Sculptured  in  white  between  the  rocky  shelves. 

Over  this  ledge  the  centuries  are  hurled, 
Fixed  in  one  mighty  instant;  and  all  time 
Sounds  in  a  single  multitudinous  chime, 

Here  in  a  green  cleft  of  the  lonely  world. 


70 


A   SONG   OF   KINDRED 

HARK!  how  the  strong  seas  shout 
To  the  pines  on  the  mountainside; 
"Sing,  brothers,  sing!  for  the  winds  are  out, 
And  the  path  of  their  flight  is  wide! 
We  leap,  at  flood  of  the  tide, 

To  the  base  of  your  rooted  rock. 
Feel  you  the  thrill  as  the  deep  caves  fill? 
Hear  you  the  breakers'  shock? 

Hail,  brothers,  hail! 
Send  your  song  on  the  western  gale. 

Loud  is  the  wind  in  every  tree, 
But  you  alone  can  voice  the  tone 

Of  the  full-throated  sea. 
From  you  alone  can  our  echoes  ring; 
Sing,   brothers,   sing!" 

Hark!  how  the  great  pines  cry 
From  the  inland  forest  places, 
Sending  the  mountain-land's  reply 
Out  to  the  wild  sea-spaces, 
Where  the  mad  wave  swells  and  races 

Under  the  tide-wind's  hand. 
"Hail,  all  hail!     We  swing  to  the  gale, 
And  shrill  to  your  brave  command. 
Rock,  rock  and  chime! 


71 


Back  we  fling  your  iterant  rhyme, 

In  a  rush  of  harmony! 

Loud  is  the  wind  in  every  tree, 
But  we  alone  can  harp  the  tone 

Of  the  deep-breasted  sea. 
From  us  alone  can  your  echoes  fall! 

Call,   brothers,   call!" 


WITHOUT  INTENT 

THIS  is  a  truth,  though  it  be  strange  to  hear: 
One  may  shed  light  upon  another's  way 

All  unaware.    Some  life-inspiring  ray 
May  shine  from  one  who  never  held  us  dear; 
And  some  slight  hand  deliver  us  from  fear 

Not  knowingly  stretched  toward  us.    What  we  see 

Or  feel,  or  dream  another's  life  to  be — 
When  by  our  love  we  bring  its  influence  near — 
Marks  on  the  soul  its  secret,  deep  impress. 

Hope   comes,  unrecognized,  and   scarce   desired, 
From  some  mere  touch  of  truth  or  tenderness. 

So,  without  knowledge,  heart  by  heart  is  fired; 
And  yonder  laughing  child  does  more  to  bless 

Than  priest  or  prophet  consciously  inspired. 


72 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GUNNER 

SHE  lies  within  her  bracings,  with  her  muzzle  out 
to  sea, 

She  is  sleeping,  darkly  sleeping,  in  the  sun; 
She    is   waiting    for    the    fiery    touch    that    sets    her 

thunders  free, 

For  the  reckoning  when  her  savage  rest  is  done. 
Oh,  my  lady,  oh,  my  pet! 
I  shall  hear  your  music  yet, 
When  the  foe  shall  set  his  broadside  to  my  gun! 


As    I    stroke    her    iron    shoulder,    heaving   with    the 

heaving  deck, 

From  her  throat  a  hollow  murmur  seems  to  start; 
As   I   whisper,  as   I   listen,  with   my  arm  upon   her 

neck, 

Do  I  hear  a  sullen  throbbing  from  her  heart? 
Oh,   my   beauty,   my   delight! 
When  you  speak,  by  day  or  night, 
Earth  from  heaven — soul  from  body — strain  apart. 

Watching  mutely    through    the    midnight,   watching 

warily  through  the  day, 

While  a  brooding  blackness  veils  her  eye  of  fire, 
As  the  tiger,  crouching  dumbly,  waits  to  seize  the 

gliding  prey, 


73 


Holding  leashed  the  secret  force  of  his  desire, 
So  she  lingers,  set  to  stand 
To  the  motion  of  my  hand. 
Till  my  summons  wakes  the  tempest  of  her  ire. 

When  the  call  shall  sound  to  action  she  shall  tremble 

in  her  greed; 
She   shall  know   me,   for   her  heart  and  mine   are 

one! 
I   shall  loose   her  rocking  thunders,   I   shall   fit  the 

bolts  that  speed, 
Straight  to  rend,  and   strong  to  shatter,  swift   to 

stun; 

All  her  mighty  thews  shall  thrill 
To  the  passion  of  my  will, 
And  my  soul  shall  send  the  message  of  my  gun! 

Still  she  lies  within   her  bracings,  with  her  muzzle 

out  to  sea; 

And  I  stroke  her  till  her  steely  shoulders  shine; 
And   she    slumbers   without   token    of   the    fury    that 

shall  be 

When  the  foe  shall  set  his  broadside  on  her  line. 
Oh,  my  lady,  my  delight! 
When  I  swing  you  round  to  sight, 
Death  shall  follow,  and  your  triumph  shall  be  mine! 


74 


IF  WORDS  COULD  REACH  THEE 

DEAR  soul,  if  words  could  reach  thee, 
What  message  should  be  thine  1 
New  readings  of  love's  hidden  lore, 

From  this  blind  heart  of  mine; 
New  wisdom  wrung  from  living, 

By  death  alone  made  clear; 
Dear  soul,  if  words  could  reach  thee, 
Thou  would'st  be  glad  to  hear! 

Dear  Love,  if  grief  could  touch  thee, 

How  well  thy  heart  would  know 
The  passion  of  untold  regret, 

The  helpless  tears  that  flow 
For  days  unblest  and  weary 

Through  life's  too  stern  demand. 
Dear  soul,  if  grief  could  touch  thee, 

Thy  heart  would  understand! 

Dear  heart,  if  Love  can  find  thee, 

(He  knows  the  larger  way), 
Then  must  thou  hear  the  broken  song 

He  brings  to  thee  to-day, 
And  with  the  old  sweet  welcome 

Give  solace  to  his  pain; 
Dear  heart,  if  Love  can  find  thee, 

He  will  not  plead  in  vain! 


75 


ON  THE  PLAINS 

WORLD-wide  space,  and  the  sky  above; 
Open  light,  that  no  shadow  mars; 
Earth  is  a  star  with  the  other  stars, 
And  heaven  is  near  enough  to  love. 

Waves  of  green  on  an  endless  sea; 

Streaks  of  bloom,  that  are  tossed  like  foam; 

The  sun  and  the  wind  are  here  at  home, 
And  here  the  cloud  and  the  storm  go  free. 

Royal  night,  and  the  veil  withdrawn, 
Blinding  glitter  of  starry  spears; 
Changing  glory   of  days  and  years, 

Perfect  splendor  of  dusk  and  dawn. 

Earth's  clear  breast,  and  the  sky  above; 

World-wide  spaces,  and  full,  free  breath; 

Here  life  looks  in  the  eyes  of  death, 
And  God  is  near,  for  the  soul  to  love. 


"TO  WHOM  SHALL  WE  GO?" 

ONE  Hand  alone,  outstretched,  unfaltering, 
Can  reach  us,  where  our  broken  lives  were  tost; 
Ye,  who  stand  safe,  may  scorn  us  as  we  cling; 
But  oh!  the  Hand  is  warm, — and  we  were  lost! 


76 


THE   LION    CAGED 

FOR  hours,  with  furtive,  forceful  tread, 
He  paces  slow,  in  sad  disdain; 
His  limbs  by  formless  longings  led 
That  thrill  their  giant  thews  like  pain. 


Or,  flinging  full  his  shaggy  length, 

Fronting  the  bars,  inert  he  lies; 
The  frenzies  of  his  captive  strength 

Flame  up,  and  darken,  in  his  eyes. 

What  moves  within  his  soul,  who  dwelt 
Between  the   naked  earth  and  sky, 

Who  with  his  strenuous  pulses  felt 
The  swinging  sphere  in  harmony? 

What  anguish  of  his  helpless  state 
Stills  his  vast  bulk  to  sullen  rest? 

Till   some   blind   impulse — fierce,  elate — 
Strikes  like  a  sting  through  brain  and  breast! 

Some  arrowy  gleam  of  tropic  suns, 
That  quickened  once  his  splendid  might, 

Through   all   his   troubled   being  runs, 
And  floods  his  yellow  eyes  with  light. 


77 


The  cold,  sweet  breath  of  forest  streams, 
Wind-blown   between   the   vengeful  bars; 

The   lusts   of   Spring;   the   savage   dreams; 
The   ranging   hunt   beneath   the    stars; 


Strange  living  memories,  dumbly  voiced, 
They  rend  him  as  he  lies  forlorn, — 

The  strong  brute  spirit,  that  rejoiced 
In  unveiled  glories  of  the  morn! 


So  with   his  leap   the   prison   shakes; 

And  as   his  mighty  head   he   rears, 
From  his  wild  bosom  hoarsely  breaks 

The  passion  of  his  wasted  years. 


Then,  slowly,  as  the  vision  dies, 

The  narrow  walls,  with  conquering  stress, 
Constrain    him — and    once    more    he    lies, 

Dull,  helpless,  stricken,  passionless! 


Yet  who  may  flout  him?     Still   he   shows 
A  shape  of  power,  as  he  were  free; 

And   fear  still  guards  him  as   he   goes, 
And  crowns  his  ruined  majesty. 


78 


THE  HERMES  OF  PRAXITELES 

THIS  Hermes  bears  an  aspect  too  divine 
For  Zeus'  light-heeled  and  trick-brained  mes 
senger; 

We  cannot  fancy  those  deep  curls  astir 
In  breezy  flight,  nor  those  calm  eyes  ashine 
With  scintillant  mirth  and  madness.     How  benign 
Those    straight    still   brows!     So    fair   a   minister 
Was  princely  Gabriel,  as  he  bent  to  her 
Who   asked    him,    awe-struck,    "Can    such    grace   be 
mine?" 

From  those  sweet  lips  what  golden  message  came, 
Forever  stilled!     The  Heavens  are  silent  now, 
Or  only  speak  in  wind  and  whispering  bough. 
Now  dwells  the  Word  within  no  rhythmic  span 
Of  song  or  rune,  but  in  the  heart  of  man, 

Divinely  breathed,  it  kindles  like  a  flame! 

NOT   IN   THE   HAND    I    LOVE 

WHEN  for  my  sin  Thou  chastenest  me,  O  Lord, 
And  man  must  be  Thine  instrument  of  woe, 
In  the  stern  hand  of  some  unvanquished  foe 
Place  Thou  the  power  to  smite  me,  and  the  sword! 

Not  in  the  hand  I  love,  oft  held  in  mine, 
For  joy  or  comfort,  through  the  changing  day; 
Or  if  that  hand  must  wound  me,  let  it  slay! 

That  from  its  lost  clasp  I  may  pass  to  Thine. 

79 


THE  KITTEN 

SMALL,  sinuous  thing,  sleek  shape  of  grace, 
Within  thy  drowsy  babyhood 
There  dwells  that  smouldering  spark  of  race 

Which  flames  forth  in  the  jungle  brood; 
In  thy  curled  softness  lies  asleep 
The  splendor  of  the  tiger's  leap. 

Thine  eyes  a  jewel-gleam  disclose, 
Where  lurks  that  soul  of  fierce  desire 

That  through  the  tropic  midnight  glows 
In  two  bright  spheres  of  baleful  fire. 

So  Nature,  in  some  wayward  hour, 

Draws  in  small  lines  her  types  of  power. 

Thy  velvet  footfalls,  as  they  glide, 

Recall  the  beauty  and  the  dread 
Of  that  long,  crouching,  sinewy  stride, 

That  furtive,  fierce,   forth-reaching  head; 
We  feel  that  deadly  presence  pass, — 
The  dry,  slow  rustle  in  the  grass. 

Since  in  thy  lithe,  swift  gentleness 
Such  hints  of  power  and  blight  are  shown, 

What  kinship  must  the  soul  confess 
With   forces  mightier  than   her  own? 

What  beast,  what  angel,  shall  have  sway, 

When  we  have  reached  our  utmost  day? 


80 


A   PRAYER 

FATHER  of  all  who  live, 
Lord    of   our    destiny, 

Choose  from  the  ranks  of  the  brave,   I  pray, 
The  friend  Thou  giv'st  to  me! 

From  those  who  have  striven  with  Thee, 

And  have  met  Thee  face  to  face, 
In   the  might  of  Thine  awful  Fatherhood, 

Thy  stern,  unsparing  grace. 

From  those  who  have  fought  and  won, 

And  lightly  worn   the   crown, 
Counting  praise  as  a  boon  unsought, 

Scorning  the  deed's  renown. 

From  those  who   have   fought  and   lost, 
And  have  wrested  joy  and  power 

From  the  very  hands  of  the  conquering  foe, 
In   the   bitter,  breathless  hour. 

From  those  who,  in  lonely  days, 

In  darkness  and  defeat, 
Have  stood  to  fate  with  a  dauntless  will, 

In  the  strong  soul's  last  retreat. 

Giver  of  gracious   gifts, 

Lord  of  the  life  to  be! 
Choose,   I  pray,   from  the   ranks   of  the  brave, 

The  friend  Thou  giv'st  to  me. 


RHYMES  OF  AN  OLD  HOME 
I 

THE  PASSER-BY 
TN  a  cold,  drifting  rain, 
•*•    On  a  dreary  night, 
I   went   hurrying  by  a   house 

With  windows  all  alight; 
Hurrying  to  my  shelter 

At  a   strange  fireside, 
I  passed  by  the   old  home, 

Where   my  mother  died. 

There   was   my   own   room, 

Where  I  dwelt  for  years, 
Harbor   of  uncounted   dreams, 

Of  unreckoned  tears; 
Ah,   from  its  every  corner 

Shall  not  ghosts  arise, 
Moaning  low  to  alien  ears, 

Frighting  alien    eyes? 

In  the  rain,  in  the  night, 

Sped   I  past  the  place, 
The  lights  of  a  stranger's  home 

Shining  in  my  face; 
With  me  walked  the  dead  days, 

The  woes  forever  gone, — 
And  the  old  house  seemed  to   sigh, 

As  I   hastened  on. 
82 


II 

THE  NEW  HOUSEHOLDER 

Who    sits    under   my    roof-tree? 

One  whom  I  have  not  known; 
He  dug  not  the  old  foundations, 

He  laid  not  a  single  stone; 
Where  a  thousand  echoes  greet  me, 

He  hears  no  word  nor  breath, 
And  the  walls  that  to  me  are  lettered, 

To  him  are  as  blank  as  death. 

Here  I  come  as  a  stranger, 

Faring  at  his  behest; 
Here  he  rules  as  the  master, 

Greeting  a  haunted  guest; 
For.  as  I  sit  by  his  fireside, 

Faintly  I  see  and  hear 
The   light  of  a   by-gone  presence. 

The   call   of  an   old-time   cheer. 

Here  I  wept  in  the  darkness, 

(Hark,  how  the  old  griefs  cry!) 
Here  she  lay  in  her  beauty, 

She  who  can  never  die. 
Aye,  though  he  pay  the  purchase, 

I   have   the  right  divine! 
His  is  the  shell — the   shadow, — 

The  soul  of  the  house  is  mine. 


83 


NOCTURNE 

HOW  cool,  how  spacious,  how  serene  the  night! 
How  the  great  transports  and  wide  destinies 
Of  that  unbounded  life   to  which  we   tend 
Now  show  themselves  in  glimpses!     Piercing  bright 
Those  quick  looks  of  the  stars  between  the  boughs. 
Flashes   of   prophecy.    The   somber   trees 
Are  massed  in  denser  dark  against  the  void, — 
Vast  spheres  of  shadow,  where  all  mysteries  blend, 
With  subtle  movement  and  with  deep-drawn  sighing. 

My  soul,  thou  sleeping  Titan,  prostrate  lying, 
Lulled  by  the  day, — now  stir  as  if  to  rise; 
Push  back  the  hair  from  slumber-weighted  brows, 
And  gaze  awhile,  with  bright  bewildered  eyes, 
Upon  thy  kindred  stars.     O  blinding  gleam! 

0  quickening  breath  of  Night  that  clears  my  dream! 

Love,  in  a  prison-house  thou  holdest  me 
Of  narrow  longings  and  enthralling  woe. 
For  once  I'll  say:    Unbar,  and  let  me  go, 
To  breathe  a  larger  air!    This  hour  sets  free 
The  slave  of  light  and  time — but  yet  to-morrow 

1  would  steal  back  to  the  old  love  and  sorrow! 


THE   AWAKENING 

DARKNESS— silence— scarce   a   breath; 
Love   is   lying   marble-still. 
Is  it  sleep,  or  is  it  death? 

Can  the  full  heart  pause  at  will? 
She  who  loves  sits  desolate, 

Whelmed  in  midnight  cold  and  deep; 
While  her  very  pulses  wait, 
Asking,   is   it   death   or   sleep? 

(Still  thee,  Soul!      Whate'er  it  be, 

Quell  the  passion  in  thy  breast. 
Questioned,   Love  must  rise  and  flee; 

Keep  thy  vigil;  let  him  rest. 
Stir  not,  while   he   slumbers   on, 

Till  he  sigh  and  softly  rise; 
Then  shalt  thou,  who  deemed  him  gone, 

Feel   his   kiss  upon   thine   eyes!) 

Darkness!      But   her   gasping  breath 

Cuts  the  silence  like  a  cry; 
She  will  know  if  this  be  death, 

Though   her   trembling   gladness   fly! 
On  her  lamp's  rim  breaks  a  spark, 

Waxes  to  a  slender  flame; 
And  her  white   face,   'gainst  the   dark, 

Shows,  a  mask  of  fear  and  shame. 


85 


Slowly  moves  the   fiery  blot 

Over  flower-traced  wall  and   floor. 
(Wake  him  not — ah,  wake  him  notl 

Love   awakened   dreams  no  more!) 
Slips  the  light,  at  her  command, 

O'er  the  fair  extended  form, 
O'er  the  listless,  curving  hand, 

O'er  the  pure  lips,  breathing  warm. 

Is  it  sleep,  or  is  it  death? 

Ah,  she  knows!      The   white   lids   rise, 
Now  unveiling,  in  a  breath, 

All  the  glory  of  his  eyes! 
Love  upsprings  beneath  her  gaze, 

Fleeting,  flashing  through  the  night, — 
Leaving  all  the  air  ablaze 

With  the  radiance  of  his  flight! 

L'ENvoi 

Keep  thy  vigil,  doubting  Soul; 

Still  thee,  till   Love's   sleep  be   o'er; 
Wait   thy   doom   of  joy  or   dole: 

Love,  so  roused,  is  thine  no  more! 


86 


THE  CONQUERING  THRUST 

WHAT   wound   smote  deepest  to   the   mightiest 
Heart 

That  ever  knew  earth's  loving  and  earth's  pain? 
The   thrust   of  Judas,   who   for   trivial   gain 
Flung  Heaven  behind  him,  and  bade  hope  depart? 
The  surging  crowd's  mad  rage?     The  aimless  dart 
Of  swift,  unthinking  mockery,  light  and  vain? 
All  these,   in   sooth,   might  that  great   Heart  dis 
dain, 
While    Love,    though    mute   and    helpless,    bore    its 

part. 
But  when  Love  shrank  and  failed,  and  three  times 

played 

The  dastard,  was  not  this  the  sorest  blow? 
Oh,  not  the   sordid  spirit  that  betrayed, 

Not  the  stern  captor,  nor  the  taunting  foe, 
But  he  who  flinched — the  friend  who  was  afraid — 
Wrung  from  those  kingly  eyes  the  appeal  of  woel 


IN   OLD  HAUNTS 

HERE,    in    old    haunts,    your    dear    remembered 
graces, 

Like   summer  blooms  returning,   come   to  view; 
My  heart  builds  shrines  along  the  wayside  places 
Where  I  have  been  with  you. 


87 


OUT  AT  SEA 

T  TNNUMBERED  waves,  and   unshadowed  light! 
*-s      Limitless   glory,   that   fades  to   sight 
With  the  dusk,  and  the   star-inspired  night! 


Through  circles  of  light  and  dark  she  slips, 
Under   the   arch-ways   of   dawn    she   dips, 
The  one  most  precious  of  all  the  ships. 

Whelmed  in  azure,  'twixt  gulf  and  space, 
She  holds  in  her  narrow  housing-place 
A  little  world,  with  its  life  and  grace; 

A  pearl  held  loosely  in  God's  strong  hand, 
A  sphere  whose  course  is  at  His  command, 
Alone  with  Him,  till  she  find  the  land. 

My  soul  is  drawn  in  her  gleaming  trail; 
With  her  I  harbor — with  her  I  fail. 
Oh,  ship  most  precious  of  all  that  sail! 

J  know  no  life,  and  I  find  no  light, 

Save  in  the  track  of  her  wave-bound  flight 

— I  feel  her  strain  to  the  winds  at  night! 

For  there,  in  her  narrow  housing-place 
Is  held  awhile  between  gulf  and  space 
The  One  whose  soul  is  my  star  of  grace. 


88 


ON  THE   RIVER:    AN   IMPRESSION 

A      RIVER  of  silver  and  azure, 
•*•*•  With  gliding  ships  afloat; 
On  the  farther  shore  a  city, 

Golden,  serene,  remote; 
With  one  fair  dome  up-rising, 

Dim  through  the  tender  mist, 
Like  a  stately,  pearl-built  palace, 

With   tracings   of  amethyst. 
A  boat,  with  proud  sails  swelling; 

Swift  as  a  dream,  she  slips 
Through  vistas  of  liquid  glory, 

Between  the  larger  ships; 
And  whither  else  is  she  headed, 

And  whither  could  she  fare, 
But  straight  to  the  mystical  palace, 

To  the  foot  of  its  shining  stair? 

Whatever  the  crew  that  boards  her, 

Or  the  freight  she  bears  away, 
She  was  set  afloat  as  a  pleasure-boat, 

To  carry  my  soul  to-day! 
For  me  are  her  blue  sails  spreading, 

For  me  was  she  launched  and  manned; 
Though  I  journey  away  from  the  river, 

Through  the  slowly  darkening  land. 


89 


She  never  will  reach  the  palace, 

Her  sails  will  never  be  furled; 
She  will  always  lie  'neath  a  reddening  sky, 

On  the  verge  of  a  wonder-world; 
And  the  palace  shall  vanish  never; 

And  the  low  sun  shall  not  fail 
To  light  forever  the  silver  river, 

The  dome,  the  sky,  the  sail. 


THE  NIGHT  FLOWER 

THE  sun  hath  many  worshippers:    all  day 
What   fair    great    flowers    send    incense    to    his 
shrine, 

Forever  turning  toward  his  face  divine, 
And  drooping  straight  when  he  withdraws  his  ray! 
What  delicate  morning  blooms  unfold  and  sway 

Upon  their  tender  stems  for  his  delight, 

But  shrinking  from  the  first  cold  touch  of  night, 
Upon  their  soft  breasts  fold  their  dreams  away! 

So  many  lovers  hath  the  royal  sun: 

But  night,  the  sad,  fair  sibyl,  hath  but  one. 
One  pure  and  wondrous  flower  is  fain  to  know 

The  lore  of  her  stern  lips  and  brooding  eyes, 
And,  stung  by  that  strange  passion,  opens  slow. 

Shines  in  white  fire  of  ecstasy,  and  dies. 


90 


A  GUARDIAN  SPIRIT 

THE  years  affright  me,  love,  for  in  their  deeps 
May  lurk  an  ambushed  woe — the  loss  of  you! 
Grief  cannot  wound  me,  while  your  guard  is  true; 
And   while   your   soul   keeps   watch,   dark   memory 

sleeps. 

But,  like  a  ghost,  along  my  pathway  creeps 
That  dream  of  evil  which  you  hold  at  bay. 
What  shall  befall  me,  should  you  slip  away 
From  my  life's  clasp? — The  sudden  terror  leaps 
Upon  my  heart,  as  some  wild  thing  alight, 
Whose  clutch  is  death  1 — Then  were  my  soul  laid 

bare 
To  all  the  sullen  hosts  of  storm  and  blight. 

But  while  I  shrink  from  that  unnamed  despair, 
Your  tender  presence  steals  upon  my  sight, 
With  blue  eyes  shining  through  the  shadowed  air. 


w 


SONG  OF  THE  SOULS  THAT  FAILED 
E  come  from  the  wind-swept  valleys, 


Where  the  strong  ranks  clash  in  might; 
Where  the  broken  rear-guard  rallies 

For  its  last  and  losing  fight; 
From    the    roaring    streets    and    highways, 

Where  the  mad  crowds  move  abreast, 
We  come  to  the  wooded  by-ways 

To  cover  our  grief,  and  rest. 


91 


Not  ours  the  ban  of  the  coward, 

Not  ours  is  the  idler's  shame; 
If  we  sink  at  last,  o'erpowered, 

Will  ye  whelm  us  with  scorn  or  blame? 
We  have  seen  the  goal,  and  have  striven 

As  they  strive  who  win  or  die; 
We  were  burdened  and  harshly  driven, 

And  the  swift  feet  passed  us  by. 

When  we  hear  the  plaudits'  thunder, 

And  thrill  to  the  victors'  shout, 
We  envy   them  not,   nor   wonder 

At  the  fate  that  cast  us  out; 
For  we  hear  one  music  only, 

The   sweet,  far  voice  that  calls 
To  the   dauntless   soul,   and  lonely, 

Who  fights  to  the  end,  and  falls. 

We  come — outworn  and  weary — 

The  unnamed  hosts  of  life; 
Long  was  our  march,  and  dreary, 

Fruitless  and  long  our  strife; 
Out  from  the  dust  and  the  riot, 

From  the  lost,  yet  glorious  quest, 
We  come  to  the  vales  of  quiet, 

To  cover  our  grief,  and  rest. 


92 


THE  BRIGHT   EYES   OF   DANGER 

BRIGHT  eyes  that  draw  me  on 
To  the  brink  of  flood  or  fire, 
Now  flashing  near — now  gone; 

Spurring  to  keen   desire, — 
Goading   to   mad    endeavor, 
Charm  me,  allure  me,  forever! 
Now  as  the  eyes  of  a  maid, 
Drooping,  and  half-afraid, 
Searching,  as  veiled  eyes  can, 
The  very  heart  of  a  man; 
Vanishing,   fading — and   then, 
Drawing  closer,  closer  again, 
With  a   sudden   flaming  grace, 
To  stare  me  full  in  the  face; 
Now,  with   a  daring  boast, 

Laughing  all  fear  aside; 
Now  as  the   eyes  of  a  ghost, 

Haggard,  and  frozen  wide, 
Fixed  in  horror  and  dread; 

Eyes,  however  ye  gleam, 

Ye  are  the  lights  of  my  dream, 

Wild  as  the  marsh-fires, 
Flitting  and  dancing  ahead! 

So  let  me  follow,  follow, 
Over  all  lands  of  the  world; 

The  deserts,  barren  and  hollow, 
Where  the  waste  rocks  are  hurled; 

93 


The  swirling  floods  of  the  sea, 

The   fields   of  storm  and  strife; 
Wherever    the    soul    rides    free 

On  a  hazard  of  death  or  life; 
Wherever  a  man  may  go 
For  chances  of  bliss  or  woe, 

Waiting  the  turn  of  the  hour, 
Watchful,  swift,  debonair, 

Borne  on  the  tides  of  power, 
Finding  all  fortunes  fair; 

There  let  me  roam  or  bide 
To  stress  and  toil  no  stranger; 

There  let  me  follow  my  guide, 
The  soul-lit  eyes  of  danger — 

Let  me  woo,  as  a  man  may  woo  his  bride, 
The  great,  wild   heart   of  danger! 


TO  ONE  YOUNG  AND  FAIR 

AS  yon  dark  pine  tree,  sad  with  memory, 
Looks  down  upon  the  violet-blooms  that  start 
Low  at  its  feet,  and  hymns  with  loving  art 
Their  gentle  grace,  in  old-world  minstrelsy; 
So  I  look  down,  most  dear,  and  sing  of  thee, 
And  feel  thy  beauty  nestling  at  my  heart. 


94 


THE   FIRE-ENGINES 

HARK!     As  with  clang!  clang!  clang!  the  iterant 
bell 
Strikes     its     imperial     note,     "Make    way!     Make 

way!" 
It  holds  the  clamorous  city  with  its  spell 

Of  instant  dread;  and  dominates  the  day. 
Now  through  the  startled  street 
The   rattling   ladders    swing,   thunder   the   galloping 

feet; 

And  in  one  wave  of  force 
The  bands  of  succor  speed  upon  their  course. 

A  man  sits  there;  the  reins  within  his  hold 
Are  as  the  strands  of  fate;  his  watchful  gaze, 
Tense  and  unswerving,  fronts  the  dizzying  maze 

Of  moving  life  before  his  speed  unrolled; 

While  his  strong  shoulders  sway  as  if  in  scorn 

Of  that  relentless  peril  to  which  his  life  is  sworn. 

The  fight  is  on!     Man's  soul  against  the  fire, 

In  hot,  exultant  ire, 

Flame  against  flame — two  giant  powers  at  bay. 
Hark!  how  the  distant  clangor  dies  away! 

Hail  to  you,  men,  that  hurtle  to  the  strife! 

Whether  in  death  or  life, 

You  win  the  day! 


or, 


THE  FIRE-FLY 

T) RIGHT  on  the  summer  dark, 
•*— '     Fretting  the  silver  night, 
Flashes  thy  trailing  spark, 
Thou  flower  of  light. 

Where  the  white  day-stars  sleep, 

Folded  in  fragrant  sod, 
Gay  vigil  dost  thou  keep, 

Small  torch  of  God. 

Infinite  light,  that  wakes 
In  the  broad  flame  of  day, 

Sparkles  in  thee,  and  breaks 
In  starry  spray. 

Jester  of  royal  night, 

Sport  of  the  festal  moon, 

Thy  glancing,  elfish  flight 
Passes  with  June. 

Brood  that  an  hour  destroys, 
Mocking  the  splendid  sky, — 

Type  of  a  thousand  joys, 
Flicker  and  die. 


THE  CITY   IDEAL 

OVER  the  white, shining  river,  out  on  its  utter 
most  rim, 
Rises    a    marvelous    city,    jeweled    with    fugitive 

gleams, 

Vested  in  silvery  vapors,  stately  and  silent  and  dim, 
City    of    shadowy    towers,    city    of    wonder    and 
dreams. 

Darkness  may  dwell  in  the  mazes  under  her  spires 

and  domes, 
Down  in  her  inmost  recesses  evil  may  shrink  from 

the  light; 
Sorrow  and   struggle  and   toil   may  be   rife   in   her 

manifold  homes; 

Clamor  and   clangor  and   tumult  may   startle   the 
day  and  the  night. 

Yet    in    her   beauty   behold    her!      Silent,    gigantic, 

serene, 
Set  like  a  vast  musing  goddess,  shrined  by  the  sky 

and  the  bay, 

Fair  with  a  splendor  prophetic,  strong  with  a  pur 
pose  unseen, — 

This  is  her  image  immortal,  this  is  the  soul  of  her 
clay. 


97 


WITHOUT  END 

AS  in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  see 
That  the  earth  was  weary,  and  very  old, 

And  the  tale  of  the  ages  well-nigh  told; 
And  hints  of  sinister  prophecy 
Breathed  of  an  end  that  soon  should  be. 
I  saw  the  blight  of  a  final  change, 

When  Spring  came  halting,  sad  and  slow; 
When  age  was  silent,  and  youth  was  strange. 

And  the  lights  of  hope  burned  low. 
Yet   there,   against   cold   twilight   skies, 

On  a  pale  space  of  rock  and  sand, 
Sat  two  alone,  with  shining  eyes, 

And  warm  hand  locked  in  hand; 
And  with  brave  cadence,  clear  and  strong, 
Broke  from  the  lover's  lips  a  song: 

Dearest,  the  world  is  all  made  new  for  us, 
Dreams  of  the  ages  all  come  true  for  us, 

Nothing  is  left  to  fear! 
Never,  in  all  the  days  before  us, 
Sang  the  birds  with  so  sweet  a  chorus, 

Never  was  Spring  so  dear. 

Love,  all  mine,  while  the  years  roll  over  us. 
Mine,  when  the  snows  of  death  shall  cover  us, 
Mine,  while  the  soul  shall  be! 


98 


Mine,  though  the  last  June  yield  her  flowers, 
Dearest,  through  immemorial  hours 
None  have  been  loved  like  thee! 

So,  as  they  sat,  the  immortal  night 
Wrapped  the  old  earth  in  still  delight 
And  in  the  blue  deep,  clear  and  far, 
Sparkled  a  new-born   star. 


THE   CLOSING   YEAR 

NOW  falters  to  its  end  a  wondrous  year, 
Crowned  with   strange  lights  of  glory  and  of 
woe, 

Splendors  of  memory,  and  prophetic  glow, 
And  all  that  makes  life  terrible  and  dear. 
The  flight  of  mighty  spirits  from  our  sphere 

Has  quickened  all  the  air.     With  what  stern  bliss 

They  to  whom  death  could  never  come  amiss 
Went  forth,  and  left  their  rich  remembrance  here! 
Theirs  is  the  history  now  of  star  and  sun; 

Creation's  music  with  their  songr  makes  rhyme: 
While  we,  who  feel  great  movements  scarce  begun. 

Hear  the  deep  hours  struck  out  with  fateful  chime; 
Nor  rest  until  the  breathless  age  has  won 

The  hard-wrought  guerdons  of  tumultuous  time. 


99 


THE   NEMESIS    OF    GERMANY 

WHAT  years,  what  centuries,  shall  cleanse  your 
name? 

What  from  the  scorn  of  men  shall  set  you  free? 
You,  who  have  built  of  black  iniquity 
The  dreadful  pillars  of  your  house  of  fame. 
Echoes  of  agony  shall  prolong  your  shame; 
Dead  lips  shall  tell  your  deeds  of  infamy; 
And  all  your  savage  hopes,  in  days  to  be, 
Shall  die  like  shrivelled  leaves  before  the  flame. 

The  bitter  fruitage  of  your  monstrous  art 
Shall  cease  not  with  the  ceasing  of  the  strife; 

Still  shall  men  enter  with  a  shrinking  heart 

Sad  places  where  your  ravaging  lusts  were  rife; 

And  stern  decrees  shall  set  your  soul  apart 
From  all  the  kindly  brotherhoods  of  life. 

YOU  THAT   HAVE   WINGS 

LIFE  and  love  are  abroad  as  the  birds  fly; 
Wingless — helpless — how    shall    I    draw    them 
nigh? 
How    shall    I    cross    your    flight,    sweet    careless 

things? 

See,  I  offer  dreams  from  my  conscious  heart, 
Words  of  love  and  fire  for  your  wordless  art, 

Flame  that  leaps  to  the  light  your  joyance  flings — 
You  that  have  wings — you  that  have  wings! 


100 


"THE  LEGION  OF  DEATH" 
(The  Women  Soldiers  of  Russia) 

THEIR  breasts  are  free  to  the  sword, 
They  have  challenged  the  dark  undoer; 
And  Pain  is  their  liege  lord, 

And  Death  their  chosen  wooer. 
His  fearful  pledge  they  keep, 

By  his  grim  shield  defended; 
He  guards  their  labor  and  their  sleep 
Till  the  high  quest  is  ended. 

They  have  smiled  in  the  eyes  of  Fear, 

They  have   scorned  the  idler's  dreaming; 
No  hope  have  they  held  dear, 

Save  for  their  land's  redeeming. 
Under  the  iron  rain, 

Where  bloom  and  fruit  are  scattered, 
They  lie  like  flowers  on  the  torn  plain, 

By  a  wild  harvest  shattered. 

These  are  the  mothers  who  fall, 

The  race  that  here  lies  bleeding; 
Theirs  was  a  bitter  call, 

Theirs  was  a  deadly  breeding. 
That  freedom  may  have  b:»th, 

That  souls  may  rise  from  sleeping, 
They  have  slain  the  love  and  the  dreams  of  earth 

The  bud  and  the  long  years'  reapingr. 

101 


THE  VIOLIN-PLAYER 

F  PRESS  you  to  cheek  and  breast, 
*        My  flower-shaped  thing  of  wonder; 
You  tremble  to  the  unrest 
Of  my  pulses  beating  under. 

The  touch  of  my  bow  is  light 
As  moth-wings  brushing  the  leaf; 

You  send  through  the  wistful  night 
Far  calls  of  rapture  and  grief. 

You  tell  me  intimate  things 

In  a  speech  beyond  all  art, 
For  your  strings  are  the  very  strings 

Of  my  own  living  heart. 

ON  THE   RIVER  AT  NIGHT 

THE  city  writes,  in  hieroglyphs  of  fire, 
The  story  of  her  life, 
Her  stress  of  toil,  her  passion  of  desire, 
Her  ecstasy  of  strife. 

Each   night,  on  either  margin   of  the   stream, 

Her  page  of  flame  unrolls; 
And  all  along  the  wave,  with  varied  gleam, 

She  draws  her  jeweled  scrolls. 

Her  soul's  appeal  is  flashed  upon   the  night; 

While,  writ  in  mightier  lines, 
With  clustered  stars,  in  characters  of  light, 

Some  calm,  great  answer  shines. 
102 


LOVE  IS  DEAD 

T    OVE  is  dead,  they  say; 

••— '  Where  is  he  laid  away? 
I  would  see  him,  stark  and  fair, 
Cut  a  lock  of  his  shining  hair, 

Kiss  his  lips,  however  cold, — 
Poor  Love,  sweet  Love, 

Who  lived  not  to  grow  old. 

Love?    We  laid  him  here, 
On  a  flower-strewn  bier, 

Yet  he's  gone,  we  know  not  where. 

Lift  the  pall, — was  he  ever  there? 
When  his  soul  is  fled  away, 
His  form  will  never  stay. 


THE   LIGHT  SUPREME 

ALL  the  beauty  of  dusk  and  star, 
All  the   glory  of  song  and  dream, 
All  the  sweetness  of  things  that  are, 
The  magic  of  things  that  seem, — 
Are  gathered  in  one  great  shaft  of  love, 

Of  light  and  of  melody, 
When  the  still  moon,  listening,  leans  above 
The  great  harp  of  the  sea. 


103 


THE  NIGHT-MOTH 

MY    night-moth,    my    white    moth,    out    of    the 
fragrant  dark 

Blowing  in  and  growing  like  a  dim  star-spark, 
So  swift  in  the  shifting  of  your  elfin  wings, 
So  slight  in  your  lighting,  as  a  flower  that  clings, 
As  a  boat  to  ride  the  dew,  with   sheer  up-bearing 

sails, 

Pulsing  and  breathing,  rocked  with  delicate  gales, — 
You  gleam  as  a  dream,  by  my  window's  light, 
My   white    moth,    my    bright    moth,    my   wandering 

wraith  of  night  1 

From  the  velvet  screening  of  a  great  gray  cloud, 
The  moon  floats  swiftly,  white  and  open-browed, 
Flooding  cloud  and  water  with  her  shining  trail, 
Till  the  night  shrinks,  sighing,  behind  the  radiant 

veil; 
The   night,   with   her   shy   soul,   to   the   deep   wood 

slips — 

Her  shy  soul,  her  high  soul,  shrine  of  all  the  stars; 
And  you  fly,  like  the  sigh  from  her  tender  Tips, 
Athwart    the    shifting    shadows,    beating    the    silver 

bars; 

You  fleet  in  the  meeting  of  the  dark  and  bright, — 
My   light    moth,    my    white    moth,    spark    from    the 

soul  of  night! 


104 


PRISONER  OF  LOVE 

T"\AWNS  glow  and  sunsets  burn, 
•"-''     May  comes  with  melody, 
Vision  and  light  return, 

To  the  clear  sea; 
Spring  finds  a  way  to  spurn 

The  shackled  soul  of  me. 

Bird-soul,  that  flits  and  sings, 
Wind-soul,  that  moves  and  sighs, 

Moth-spirit,  made  of  wings, 
And  flower  with  eyes, — 

All  sweet  and  careless  things, 
Laugh  at  love's  sacrifice. 

Night's  subtle  hours  release 

Fragrance  and  witchery; 
Clear  light  and  vision  cease 

On  the  dim  sea. 
Only  the  stars  bring  peace; 

They  know  the  soul  of  me. 


105 


THE  PORT  OF  LONELINESS 

T  SAIL  for  the   Port  of  Loneliness, 

-*•         Under  a  narrowing  sky, 

And  I  must  forget  the  wide  sea-fields 

Where  the  far  horizons  lie, 
And  the  changes  wrought  in  the  hollow  world 

As  night  and  day  go  by. 

I  sail  for  the  Port  of  Loneliness; 

Is  it  an  island  far 
Where  a  little  rippling  harbor  dwells 

Behind  the  white  sea-bar, 
And  the  land  hangs  on  the  blue  void 

Like  an  uncompanioned  star? 

Nay,  but  the  Port  of  Loneliness 

Where  I  have  lost  my  kin, 
Is  the  port  where  the  giant  city  calls, 

With  its  harsh  and  wordless  din, 
Where  the  green  water  laps  the  docks, 

And  the  ships  go  out  and  in. 


106 


MY   LOVE  IS  THE   SEA 

MY  love  is  the  sea;  she  is  tender  and  fierce  and 
gay, 
She  is  subtle  and  strong  in  her  grace,  as  a  leopard 

at  play; 
To  those   who   fear  she   is   scornful   and  bitter  and 

cold, 

But  her  lips  are   sweet  and  her  breast  is  warm  to 
the  bold. 

My  love  is  the  sea;  she  is  royally  robed  and  fine; 
She  is  sphinx  and  queen,  half  brutal  and  half  divine; 
Death  is  her  friend, — he  calls  through  her  loveliest 

hour; 
His  sword  is  free  to  her  hand  in  her  day  of  power. 

My  love  is  the  sea;  oh,  mighty  is  she,  and  strange! 
She  is  fairer  than  fire;  she  is  mistress  of  mood  and 

change; 
She   has   read   the    dreams   of  the    moon,   and   their 

tale  unrolls 
To  her  misty  verge,  emblazoned  in  silver  scrolls. 

My  love  is  the  sea;  she  has  sent  her  challenge  far, 
Her  voice  is  flung  to  the  void,  as  from  star  to  star; 
The  great  winds  run  at  her  cry,  through  cloud  and 

light, 
And  her  breath  is  the  breath  of  the  spheres  in  the 

open  night. 


107 


My  love   is   the   sea;   she    calls   through    my   nights 

and  days, 
In    the    wind-swept    pines,    in    the    city's    sounding 

maze; 
And    out    of    the    throngs    who    have    borne    her    a 

lover's  part, 
I  fling  this  song  to  her  vast  and  careless  heart. 


THE   NEMESIS 

YE  who  were  cruel,  by  will  or  reckless  deed, 
Ye  shall  learn  what  your  searing  brand  hath 
wrought; 
They   who   have   borne   the    scars   shall   scorn   your 

need, 

Though  you  be  humbled  in  heart,  and  changed  in 
thought. 

Lo,  ye  have  brought  forth  Fear,  and  it  will  not  die; 

Love   shall  flee  your  touch,   though  your  soul  be 

shriven. 
As  a  beast,  with  stealthy  step  and  with  muffled  cry, 

Fear  shall  follow  you,  even  to  the  gates  of  Heaven. 


108 


THE  LURE 

THE  sea  loves  him,  and  spreads  her  lure, 
Greeting  him  when  the  dawn  is  new; 
She,  so  wary,  and  passion-pure, 
Lovely  and  fierce  and  true. 

The  tale  of  her  jewels  was  never  told; 

Pearl  and  silver  under  the  mist; 
Sapphire,  opal,  dazzle  of  gold, — 

Beryl,  and  amethyst. 

The  sea  calls  him — her  nights  ablaze 
With  tangled  stars  with  their  alien  gleam, 

With  lanes  of  light  in  a  moony  haze, 
Leading  him  past  all  dream. 

His  soul  loves  her,  and  will  not  rest. 

Inland,  he  dreams  of  her  royal  wiles, 
Sighing  vaguely,  and  ever  oppressed, 

For  lack  of  her  breath  and  her  smiles; 

For  the  mighty  push  of  her  salty  spray 
Over  his  shoulders,  cold  and   strong, 

Where,  "Come,  beloved,"  she  seems  to  say, 
"Why  do  I  wait  so  long?" 

He  will  fail  at  last,  through  her  fearful  charms, 
He  will  yield  at  last  to  her  careless  art; 

One  moment's  strife  in  her  strangling  arms, 
Then — silence   under  her  heart. 


109 


THE   WIND    IN    THE   TREES 


'T^HIS  is  the  echo  of  the  mystic  sea, 

•*•      Sent  inland  over  leagues  of  barren  ground; 
The  Presence  in  the  forest  minstrelsy  — 
The  spirit  of  all  silence,  hid  in  sound. 


THE  WOOD  SPEAKS 

THE  wind  goes  questing;  the  wood  speaks 
In  its  own  intimate  ways; 
And  every  leaf  and  frond,  half  hidden,  seeks 
Its  small  insistent  phrase. 

There  is  no  rhythm,  and  no  song, 

The  speech  is  quiet  and  deep, 
Only  a  whisper — whisper — all  along, 

Softer  than  sleep. 

Not  as  the  prophet  sea,  whose  sound 

Is  far-drawn  and  remote; 
This  is  a  friendly  stir  across  the  ground, 

A  tender,  searching  note. 

As  if  one,  leaning,  took  your  hand, 

And  said,  "Will  you  not  hear? 
I  bring  you  rest,  if  you  will  understand; 

Come  near — come  near!" 


110 


DATE  DUE 


CAYUORD 


rco  IN  us  A. 


A     000  625  857 


